Atmosphere
by Burning Stars
Summary: "My arena, my creation, has one sole purpose: destruction. My arena is a paradox, just like the Capitol."
1. A Visit from the President

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

**Head Gamemaker Icarus Castillo**

* * *

I let out a sigh as I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. I stare at the huge screen in front of me, a detailed schematic of the arena, and I can't help but feel a certain sense of pride. This set of brightly colored lines, numbers, calculations, and statistics represent more than eleven months of my life. Eleven long, arduous months. But in less than one week, every single iota of my endless work will be broadcast across the entire nation of Panem.

And I intend to impress.

A fidgety woman, dressed in a ridiculous magenta dress that makes her thin frame look like a dragon fruit, walks up beside my chair, holding a paper-thin computer screen in her slender white hands. She nervously clears her throat. "Mr. Castillo?"

"Please, Spicer," I say, allowing myself a small grin. "How many times do I have to tell you? Mr. Castillo is my father's name." I look to her delicate face, and raise my eyebrows. "Call me Icarus."

She places a short spiral of light pink hair behind her ear, and she purses her lips. "It would be disrespectful of me to address you by your first name, sir."

I roll my eyes, and my grin grows wider. She's always so uptight. "I have already given you my permission to call me by my first name, Spicer. I would appreciate it if you took me up on the offer."

Nodding, she says, "Yes, Mr. Castillo." She squeezes her eyes shut, and quickly corrects herself. "Icarus. Sorry."

Standing up from my comfy black chair, I run a hand through my short, naturally light brown hair. I've never been one for all of those fancy dyes and gaudy clothes. "So, what did you need to tell me?"

Spicer gives a curt nod, and hands me the data pad. As I scroll through the reams of information, she says, "All of the platforms are fully operational, every muttation is within three days of maturity, the techs have programmed all but one of the weather manipulation centers, the barriers are all at full strength, the outer camouflage panels are all running at one hundred percent capacity, the launch points are prepped, and the cornucopia is set."

I nod, satisfied. "And the gramophone?"

She raises a light pink eyebrow. "You have no idea how far I had to search for such an antique artifact, let alone persuade the old man to sell it to me. I don't think there is a single stone left unturned in the entire Capitol. But yes, I found one, and it's sitting in the middle of your office."

Smirking, I place my hand on her shoulder. With her ten-inch stilettos, she's almost as tall as I am. "And that's why you're my favorite."

She takes back the data pad and shakes her head with mock-disappointment. "The things you say, sir. I'm beginning to think you have no idea what an actual professional relationship looks like."

Waving my hand dismissively, I return my attention to the screen. "Professionalism is for the boring. And I'm in charge, so I act however I want. I could probably show up in my underwear, and the President himself couldn't do a thing about it because the reapings are in less than a week, and it would be very difficult to find another Head Gamemaker within such a small timeframe. Especially if they're looking for someone who knows this arena as well as I do."

"I know just as much about this Game as you do, Icarus."

I freeze with my hands clasped in front of my mouth, and spin on my heels to face her. A satirical tone enters my voice. "Is that a threat?"

She shrugs vaguely. As she walks away from me, I hear her say, "Just keep it professional, Icarus, and we'll have no problems."

I narrow my eyes and watch her leave. I always love a woman with biting sarcasm.

Up on the schematics screen, one of the lines switched from orange to green, and I know that the techs have finally gotten the last weather manipulation center online. Excellent.

"Rory, get me a line to the head technician."

The fat blue man in charge of communications gives me the thumbs-up, and I press my index finger against the radio device that's wrapped around my ear. "Helena, do you read me?"

The head technician's gravelly voice echoes in my ear, "Yessir."

"Schematics indicate that Weather Device Eight is now online. Is this true?"

"Yessir."

I press my tongue against my teeth, and take a sharp breath through my nose. "Alright. How are the hovercraft looking?"

"The big one or the little ones?"

"All of them."

"Well, the big one has a glitch in the camouflage, specifically the image redundancy generator, but we should have it patched up in a couple of hours. The little ones are doing fine, though."

"And the hoverboards?"

"They all check out, sir. Lewis was having a good time with one earlier, says it's a shame that these toys have to be wasted on the district dogs."

I lean back on my heels and fold my arms in front of me. I've never enjoyed using slurs; they always leave a bad taste in my mouth. "Yeah, well. Dogs or not, I think they should get to have some fun before they die."

A moment of silence buzzes on the other end, until she finally responds, "I see what you're saying, sir."

"Good to know we're on the same page. If everything else is in order, I'll let you get back to your work. Report back if anything catastrophic happens."

Cutting off the connection, I place my hands behind my back and saunter over to the large window that overlooks the city. My office takes up the entire sixty-forth floor of our high-rise, and from here I can see the entire sunlit Capitol: every shining tower, every gleaming window, every hovercraft zooming through the air, every street, every alleyway, every piece of beauty and every dirty little secret that the leadership would like to keep hidden. Such a grand paradox, the Capitol is. All of its inexorable glory, fed by the labors of the unworthy and the blood of their children.

And then here I am, Icarus Castillo, Head Gamemaker of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, standing above it all. I was appointed to entertain these people, while simultaneously pounding the cold truth into the districts: that the Capitol will always triumph over them and their petty attempts at freedom. Whether or not that rings true, I must fly the flag of propaganda, or the President, no matter what I tell Spicer, _will_ find a way to replace me, probably one that involves my untimely and excruciating death. Which isn't something I look forward to; I am only twenty-seven years old, and I aim to survive for at least another five decades.

When they nominated me for Head Gamemaker, I was shocked. I previously worked as a secondary arena designer; an unremarkable job, but it allowed me to suggest my designs directly to the Head Gamemaker, and a couple of my ideas even made it into the final plans. But never did I expect the President to pass the baton of ultimate responsibility to me the following year.

My first instincts told me to say no, and reject the nomination altogether. The job is just too… inhumane. But the President very quickly corrected my thinking with a low-spoken threat: either I accepted the position, or some unsuspecting bystander would find my mutilated body hanging from the edge of an overpass. Needless to say, I heartily thanked him for the wonderful opportunity and immediately set to work on my designs.

I decided to have some fun with my involuntary job, and over the last eleven months I've grown to love my arena. It's as close to pure creation as any human will ever get: the ability to design whatever I want, with whatever special touches I deem appropriate, and if I don't like the desk jockey working three computers down, all I have to do is snap my fingers and he's gone. But everything I've made is tainted.

My arena, my _creation, _has one sole purpose: destruction. My arena is a paradox, just like the Capitol.

Spicer grabs my arm, breaking me out of my thoughts. Her bright green eyes are wide with apprehension, and I know that something must be wrong. Two words escape her mouth: "He's here."

True to her word, I turn to watch as the dragon himself walks in, surrounded by an entourage of well-armed security guards. He's dressed in a black tuxedo, complete with a red bow tie, and he's combed back his salt-and-pepper hair as he always does. Wearing a mirthless expression, he halts in front of me and I bow in respect. Actually, it's more out of fear than anything else, but I'll never admit that to him.

"Everything is going according to plan?" President Snow asks, his cold eyes searching my face.

"Yes, Mr. President. Everything is right on schedule." I pause, biting the inside of my lip. "You had to see me in person to ask me one question?" The image of President Snow stuffed inside of an elevator with ten of his security guards doesn't seem right.

His eyes narrow. "Watch your tone. I prefer to see my subordinates in person." A stony grin crawls up the sides of his face. "It keeps them honest."

I will believe that, actually. His gaze cuts through me like a scalpel, searching for any information that he can use to his advantage.

"So tell me, Mr. Castillo," he says, his words dripping with condescension, "will the Sixty-Forth Games live up to the hype?"

I smirk, and holding up both arms, I gesture to the midday sky. "It's all up in the air, Mr. President."

* * *

**Thank you, Cashmere67. If not for you, this entire idea would still be an amorphous blob floating around on the outer periphery of my mind.**

**I finally have all of the tributes! Thank you to everyone who submitted.  
**


	2. The List

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

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**Head Gamemaker Icarus Castillo**

* * *

Through the windows, I watch the soft purple of twilight give way to nighttime. No stars appear in the sky above, all drowned out by the incredible volume of light endlessly pumped out by the Capitol. My own office is dark, though, save the faint blue glow given off by my screensaver. I am crouched over in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose and trying to quell my anxiety.

I watched the reapings earlier. It feels strange, knowing that my masterpiece will soon be revealed to the entire nation, and that I will orchestrate the deaths of twenty three children. Between my apprehension and my revulsion, it's hard to pin my thoughts down.

Behind me, the door opens, sending a square of orange light across my head and shoulders, allowing me to see the reflection of my silhouette in the windowpane. Spicer enters the room, her heels clacking against the tiled floor, and she stops beside me.

"Here's the list," she says, offering me the data pad.

I hesitantly take the thin square of metal, unwilling to look at their names. Almost all of them will die in this Game. In _my_ Game.

**District One**

M - Trance Berrill, 17

F - Alpha Revere, 16

**District Two**

M - Necali Reinerston, 18

F - Stellar "Stell" Andrews, 18

**District Three**

M - Zeno Atticus, 13

F - Rumor Cobalt, 16

**District Four**

M - Nemo Dedecus, 18

F - Waverly Capri, 16

**District Five**

M - Dominic "Dom" Monipule, 14

F - Mariah Cassel, 17

**District Six**

M - Alder Haynes, 16

F - Relly Jay, 14

**District Seven**

M - Linden Cooper, 17

F - Flavia Reeves, 16

**District Eight**

M - Wade Odinshoot, 15

F - Erizelda "Zelda" Morrison, 17

**District Nine**

M - Glen Ackerman, 18

F - Pagnotta Millet, 14

**District Ten**

M - Birch Styler, 18

F - Idrial Coven, 15

**District Eleven**

M - Cascade Zephyr, 17

F - Selene "Sparrow" Briony, 16

**District Twelve  
**

M - Taun Navarro, 12**  
**

F** -** Charcoal "Charlie" Paxton, 16**  
**

I set the data pad down on the counter next to me. "Thank you, Spicer."

She gives me a slight bow, then leaves me alone with my thoughts. Rubbing my eyes, I let out a sigh and slump back into my chair.

These tributes show promise. I must use their talents and their flaws to make this Game live up to my vision.

I must put on a good show for the Capitol.

* * *

**The blog URL is (remove the spaces): www. atmosphere hunger games. blogspot. com  
**

**Let me know if I messed up any of the tributes' names or descriptions.  
**

**I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd let me know which 6 tributes stood out to you the most, and why (interesting picture, unusual weaknesses, cool name, etc.)  
**

**Again, thank you to everyone who submitted!  
**

**I apologize if your tribute isn't on this list; I received many great submissions, but alas, I had to make some executive decisions.  
**


	3. District One Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Cheshire Bluebell, District One Escort**

* * *

For the love of all that is good in the world, do these District deadbeats have any idea how to run a reaping? Judging by their inability to properly color-coordinate, apparently they do not.

"You!" I say, glaring at one of the passing Peacekeepers. He freezes, and points to himself questioningly. "Yes, you. Get over here."

He hesitantly shuffles over to me, and I thrust a mint green banner against his chest. "You will take this, and replace the current banner above the stage. Got it? We can't have a parrot green banner at the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games. It has to be mint."

He holds the banner awkwardly, not entirely sure what to do with it.

I roll my eyes, and slap my palm against my forehead. "Go talk to Onyx. He'll tell you what to do."

The Peacekeeper nods to me and scurries off.

I swear, all of these people are brain dead.

* * *

**Trance Berrill, District One Male**

* * *

From my house up on the hill, I can see the entire city. The winding suburbs, the trees, the cluster of high rises on the south side, the people walking from place to place… it's nice, to be sure. But I've become too accustomed to my home. I need a change of scenery.

The grandfather clock in the kitchen chimes exactly eleven times, and as I stare into my cup of orange juice, I wonder where my morning went. Then again, I overslept until ten fifteen. But today is reaping day, so I think I get a pass.

I cross the threshold back into my house and, placing the glass down on the counter, I notice a marble sitting on one of the corners of the wooden table. A beam of sunlight pours through the window above the sink, striking the marble at just the right angle to send a thin rainbow across the surface. I pick up the small sphere and roll it around in the center of my palm. The glass is mostly clear, but a swirl of green and blue runs through the middle, almost like a small leaf trapped inside ice.

Walking back out onto the porch, I lie down on my side and place the marble on one of the wooded planks, right in front of my face, where it will catch the most light. I flick the marble with my finger, only enough to send it to the end of the porch, before the incline of the wood sends it rolling back to me. I flick and flick and flick, entranced by the leaf of color as it spins wildly inside of the glass sphere.

"What are you doing?" a harsh voice demands.

I look up to see Lazuli towering over me, her brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Watching the marble," I murmur, turning my attention back to the shiny sphere.

I can almost feel the frustration radiating off of my sister's skin. "Shouldn't you be training?"

Sighing, I clasp my hand over the marble, stopping it in its tracks. "The reapings are today. I don't think that two hours of slashing at a dummy will do me any good."

"Uh huh," she says, doubtful. "So instead you'll watch a marble rolling across the porch."

"Yup."

A beat of silence passes. "Freak," she mutters. For a moment she lingers, probably still with a glare on her face, before she leaves me alone.

Boredom has already claimed this activity, though, so I stand up, brush myself off, and carelessly toss the marble off into our rosebushes. A white butterfly flits up from one of the flowers, disturbed by the sudden movement. I chase after it without a second thought, with the full intent of catching the winged insect, if only to inspect it. I follow it all the way down my front yard and halfway down the street.

My quarry is almost within my grasp, I can almost feel the white powdery wings fluttering against my hands, when a voice calls my name, breaking my concentration.

"Trance!"

I know that voice.

I turn to see Mirror walking up the hill, her auburn hair shining brightly in the sunlight. She waves at me, and I wave back.

Unfortunately, during this interaction, the butterfly escapes.

I frown at the spot where the creature had been just a moment ago, but quickly recover because Mirror is here, and she's more interesting than the butterfly.

"Today's the day," she says, but I can't identify the emotion in her words.

"Why do you say it like that?"

She averts her eyes, and her lower lip twitches. "You're volunteering today, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Her blue eyes meet mine, and this time I can tell that she's upset. "Can't you just wait until next year?"

I shake my head. "Nope. If I wait until next year, and someone volunteers before I do, I will never be able to participate in the Hunger Games. Ever." As we cross the stone bridge at the end of the block, I step up onto the railing, holding my arms out to balance myself. "I've been training since forever. The Hunger Games interest me. I need to go somewhere new."

"But simple novelty isn't worth entering the Games," Mirror says, her frown deepening.

I hop off of the railing and land lightly on my feet. "Says you."

* * *

**Alpha Revere, District One Female**

* * *

I pause the video, right as the District One male buries his hatchet in the District Eight female's neck. This is my favorite part of the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games. The look on the girl's face is just so… perfect. She knows she's going to die.

I've watched this video at least twenty times, along with all of the previous Games. I know that the District One male ends up winning. In fact, when I volunteer in two years, he might end up being my mentor.

But overall, my favorite kill out of all the past Games has to be when, in the Fifty-Eighth, the District Ten female snapped her district partner's neck, and used his body as a shield to defend herself from a vicious muttation. Such a betrayal came as quite a shock to the Capitol, and even though she was later killed by the District Four male, her resourcefulness deserves commendation.

I place the remote on the granite counter top and lean back on the bar stool, which creaks with the movement. Six years ago, I committed myself to the Hunger Games. I know that, when I reach the age of eighteen, I will volunteer, and finally experience the violence for myself. I want to kill.

But it will have to wait for another two years. After all, I stand a better chance of living longer, and therefore killing more people, if I wait until I'm eighteen. Two more years of training can go a long way.

I twist around, cracking my back, and my mother walks into the kitchen, fluffing up her ridiculous blond hair. Her expression indicates disappointment. "Alpha, are you really going to wear that to the reapings? You look like a wreck."

Running a hand through my hair, I look up at the ceiling nonchalantly, intentionally trying to annoy her. "And you think I care because…?"

"Because when you go out into public, you're representing the Revere family."

I slide off of my chair and smooth out my knee-length white dress. "Which is exactly _why_ I don't care."

"Excuse me?" she demands, her arms pressed against her sides. "When you go out looking like a dump, or when you decide to wreak havoc in the district, or worse, you not only make yourself look bad, you hurt our family image, too!"

We have this one-sided argument everyday, and each time she only gets stupider, while her argument only grows weaker. It's not like I'm about to change myself just to make her happy.

I flip my hair back over my shoulder, and flounce out of the kitchen. I'm not even going to dignify my mother's words with a response. She isn't worth it.

I swing around the banister and hurry into the family room, which my father so graciously agreed to help me turn into a training room. Spears, swords, axes, daggers, cleavers, and machetes line the white walls, and three worn dummies stand in the corner, the cloth surfaces full of slices and nicks. Each one has been replaced at least thirty times.

Taking one of the daggers from the rack, I walk towards the center dummy, place my hand on its shoulder, and run the blade up through what would be its diaphragm, and yank upwards to its heart. Oh, I long for the day when my blade cuts through living flesh, and my victim's blood flows freely across my hands. I want to watch the light leave their eyes. I want to be their end.

Using the chest as leverage, I twist the dummy's head off, splintering the weak wooden neck into a thousand different pieces. I wish real vertebrae broke like this. It would be so much better.

"Two years can't pass soon enough," I mutter. Rolling the head over in my hands, I smirk, and throw it down on the ground with as much force as I can muster.

"Alpha," my father says, walking in the doorway. "It's time to go."

I lower my gaze to the ground. Oh, goody. Reaping time.

* * *

**Trance Berrill**

* * *

Mirror and I arrive at the center of town rather early in the day, but I don't have a problem with that. It's not like we had any plans, anyways.

In wonderment, I look around what is normally our town square, dotted with extravagant shops and statues and fountains, but today there is only a black stage, sitting in the center of everything. A slender woman with long magenta hair stands on the stage, waving her light blue hands around in frantic circles, in an attempt to give the event some semblance of order. She's our escort, I remember. I've never really liked her. Her voice is too shrill.

I sign in with the registrar, and wander over to my spot among the seventeen-year-olds. No one seems too interested in speaking with me, so I stare up at the sky, looking for any patterns in the fluffy white clouds.

I kinda space out, because next thing I know, my friend Dion nudges me back to reality. When did he get here?

I look over to him, and he nods up to the stage. "It's almost time, dude."

Sure enough, the mayor has already handed off the microphone to the blue-skinned escort, and she is fumbling around in the bowl of names, searching for the kid who definitely won't be going to the Capitol today.

"Jarvis Cithe," she reads aloud.

Some skinny guy from the eighteen-year-old section nervously steps forward, but I leap ahead, shoving one of the other kids who looks like he's about to volunteer out of the way.

"I volunteer!" I cry, running up onto the stage.

The woman gives me a cursory glance, and smirks with her blindingly bright orange lips. "Oh? And your name?"

"Trance Berrill."

She hastily claps for me, and a smattering of applause fans out across the audience. "Well, Mr. Berrill, let's see who your companion will be."

* * *

**Alpha Revere**

* * *

The other kids give me a wide berth, but their repulsion only makes my smile grow wider. They _should_ avoid me. They _should _fear me.

I take my spot in the crowd of children, but no one makes the mistake of actually _crowding _me. Most everyone knows better than to get too close.

Up on the stage, Mayor Rafael reads off some speech, blah blah blah, Treaty of Treason, blah blah blah, we love the Capitol, blah blah blah, and ten minutes later he finally hands the microphone over to our high-strung escort.

"Hello, District One!" she cries, but I can tell that her joyfulness is completely forced. "Let's find out who our male representative will be!"

She thrusts her hand into the bowl, pulls out a slip of paper, and reads, "Jarvis Cithe."

A guy in the eighteen-year-old section steps forward, his face twisted as if someone just told him his grandma died. But another boy jumps forward and volunteers, knocking some other boy out of the way, and hurries up onto the stage. He looks like a career, but there's something in his expression that indicates he has no idea what he's volunteering for. Fool.

"And your name?" the escort asks, a doubtful expression on her face.

"Trance Berrill," the guy responds. He has a nice voice. Too bad he's going to die.

A few pathetic claps sound from the audience. "Well, Mr. Berrill," the escort says, "let's see who your companion will be."

The bowl of female names gives up one of the slips of paper. The escort quickly unfolds it, and reads what is written: "Alpha Revere."

It takes a second to register that she just read my name.

Oh? Could this really be? A sign, telling me to enter the games this year?

I confidently step forward, a cold grin upon my face. Oh, this will be fun.

Some girl steps out of the ranks of the seventeen-year-olds, throws me a cocky glance, then turns towards the stage and takes a deep breath.

"I volun-"

My elbow smashes into her right temple, and with a small pop, she crumples to the ground in an ugly heap. The audience gives a collective gasp, and the kids nearest to me take a couple steps back. Two Peacekeepers run over and kneel next to her, checking the inside of her wrist for a pulse, patting the side of her face to bring her back to consciousness. She gives no noticeable response, and one of the Peacekeepers shakes his head. Did I just kill her?

Oh, wait. I don't care.

No way this girl takes away my chance to fight in the Games.

Luckily, no one else is stupid enough to volunteer. The rest of them know who I am.

A happy feeling bubbles up in my chest when I realize that I won't even need to wait another two years. I get to go to enter the Games today.

Putting as much swing in my stride as I possibly can, I ascend the steps and walk over to the escort. A muscle twitches underneath her blue face, but she otherwise makes no comment on my actions.

"And may I present to you," she says, interlocking Trance's hand with mine, forcing another smile onto her face, "the District One tributes for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor."

* * *

**Trance Berrill**

* * *

"Did you bring my lucky stone?" I ask.

My mother holds out her hand, and the pale pink rock slips from her fingers, dangling only by a silver chain. "Of course, dear."

I take the necklace and clasp it behind my neck. This will be my token.

My father whacks his hand against my back in approval, and a hearty laugh escapes from him. "I am so proud of you, my boy, keeping up the family tradition!"

My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my uncle all volunteered for their respective games. It's customary for the firstborn son in the Berrill family to volunteer, and since I'm my father's only son, that responsibility fell to me. I didn't volunteer to make my father happy, though. I volunteered to see the Hunger Games and the Capitol from the inside, to quell my own curiosity. The honor and glory and riches aren't as important to me as meeting new people and seeing new things.

The door opens, and an anxious face appears on the other side. It's Mirror. "I've never been inside the Justice Building before. It's kind of nice."

I grin, and step forward to hug her. "You came to say goodbye?"

"We both did," Dion says, following her into the room. I don't hug him, but I think he prefers it that way.

Mirror gives me a halfhearted smile, taking my hand in hers. "We just wanted to wish luck to the future victor of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games."

"Well, thank you," I say, unsure how else to respond.

"We are just so proud of you," my mother says, her delicate face scrunched up with an overexcited smile. "And you get to go to the Capitol like you always wanted!"

I smile, and lean up against her shoulder. "Thanks, mom."

As the words pass across my lips, the reality of my situation finally sinks in, at least a little bit.

I will be going to the Capitol.

I will be a part of the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Alpha Revere**

* * *

"I don't want a token," I say, my arms folded across my chest and my face turned away from my parents. "I don't want anything to remind me of this dull place."

"But dear," my father says, trying to coax me into taking a small scallop shell, "don't you at least want something to remind you of us?"

I stamp my foot down. "NO! I want to remember nothing of District One, you and mother least of all!"

He pulls away from me, as if stung by a wasp. The pain in his facial expression makes me happy.

"What?" he asks weakly.

"Oh, don't act so surprised," my mother snaps, refusing to even make eye contact with me. "She's always acted like this, why should today be any different?"

For once, she and I actually agree. This goodbye is quickly growing stale.

"Perhaps it's time for you both to leave," I say, waving one of the Peacekeepers over. The hulking man steps forward, his intimidating frame enough to take up the entire doorway. "Goodbye mother, father."

I am finally rid of them. I am finally rid of this place. "Don't miss me while I'm gone."

* * *

**So, what do you guys think?**

**If I didn't portray your tribute correctly, don't hesitate to PM me.  
**


	4. District Two Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Champagne LaBoux, Escort**

* * *

Oh, I just love District Two. The people, the mountains, the fancy houses. And it's so close to the Capitol, I don't even need to travel that far. All I have to do is hop in a hovercraft, zoom over here, and bam! I have arrived.

I peer into the full-length mirror, with I specially ordered for my hovercraft, and move a strand of golden hair from one side of my face to the other. I must look absolutely perfect for the reapings. With my short hair properly fluffed up, I wrap myself in a shimmering light yellow gown, and twirl around the hovercraft cabin, enjoying the way the fabric flutters around me.

"Alfred!" I call. Alfred is my pilot.

He responds with a deadpan, "What?"

Oh, he's such a fuddy duddy. "Don't I look marvelous?"

"I am currently piloting this hovercraft, ma'am. Unless you want to die, I suggest that I keep my eyes on the sky."

His words rhymed! Unintentionally, I'm sure, but still! Maybe he isn't so bad after all. "My dear Alfred, you're a poet, and you didn't even know it!"

He grumbles something about Capitol ninnies, but I don't care. Today is reaping day, and I won't let his negativity get me down.

* * *

**Stellar Andrews, District Two Female**

* * *

Standing on a short bridge, I violently tear a piece from the bread loaf, and throw it at the flock of little brown ducks swarming the water underneath me. The piece of bread bounces off one of the duck's heads, and it dives to save the bit of food from the other annoying creatures. In my frustration, I throw the entire loaf into the water, where it plunges below the murky surface with a loud _plunk! _The entire mob flutters over to the bread, though none of the ducks can break through the tough crust.

"I hate my parents," I mutter, resting my chin against the railing.

Attrition, my sort-of-boyfriend, wraps his arm around my shoulder, and in my peripheral vision, I see him looking at me. We've had a two year on-again off-again relationship, and right now we're just getting past one of the off periods. So I let him keep holding me.

"You shouldn't hate them," he says, voice low.

I roll my eyes. "You only say that because you don't have to live with them. It's always, 'Stellar do this' or 'Stellar do that' or 'Stellar you aren't good enough' or 'Stellar, you never go to your training classes, what are you doing with your life'. It's awful."

"But half of the time, you _don't_ go to your training classes."

"I know, but I still don't want to hear it from them."

He kisses the side of my face. I turn to look at him, and his hazel eyes fix upon me. I lean in, and his lips brush against mine.

"Really, though," I say, resting my head on his shoulder, "they're just a bunch of jerks. I can never live up to their expectations."

He smirks. "Then don't worry about it. It's your life. You're eighteen. You can make your own decisions and set your own expectations."

I lower my eyes. "I've already made a decision of my own."

Attrition's face brightens. "You decided?"

"Yeah. I decided that I'm going to volunteer."

His smile fades by a fraction. "Really?"

"Why is that so surprising to you?" I demand, pushing away from him. He's my boyfriend. He's supposed to support me. "Is it really so unbelievable that Stellar Andrews will volunteer for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games?"

Raising his hands defensively, Attrition's eyes widen and his smile disappears completely. "Did I say that? No. It's just that volunteering for the Hunger Games is a serious commitment, and it tends to change people. I'm sure you'll do great."

My shoulders slump, but still I refuse to make eye contact with him.

Attrition leans his elbows against the railing, and folds his hands together. "I guess my next question is, are you volunteering for yourself? Or are you volunteering to impress your parents?"

What?! "I AM NOT-"

Wait. Now that I think about it, I _am_ volunteering to impress my parents. I'm volunteering for the fame and money, too, but mostly to impress my parents. That reason seems so _weak_, though.

"That's what I'm talking about," Attrition says, picking up on my silence. He pushes away from the guardrail. "In the arena, dedication is the biggest asset anyone can have. And if you don't know your own reason for volunteering, then you already have a setback."

"Are you trying to convince me not to volunteer?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "You're supposed to be supportive of my decisions, Attrition. And now you're telling me that I don't have what it takes to win?"

He haves a huge sigh, shaking his head, then turns around and starts walking away from me, towards the center of town where the reapings will take place. "I'm not trying to hurt you, or inspire doubt within you," he says, but he's facing away from me and his words are muffled. "I care about you, and I just want to make sure that you know what you're getting yourself into." When he reaches the end of the bridge, he spins back around to face me, a half-sarcastic smile on his face. "Sorry if I offended you."

I run to catch up with him, and intertwine my hand with his.

"It's alright," I say. Finally, he admits his mistake. "I forgive you."

Attrition just rolls his eyes again. "I'm glad."

* * *

**Necali Reinerston, District Two Male**

* * *

It took me three and a half hours to draw this picture of my father, in all of his arrogant, slave-driving glory. All this work, just to destroy it the second I finish.

I pick the paper up off of my desk and, with the help of two thumbtacks, pin it against the wall. All across the white surface, there are holes and pockmarks and places where the paint and drywall have sloughed off, most of the damage caused by me. I have no respect for my parents, and even less respect for their property.

Lightly running my thumb along the edge of my throwing knife, I take a few steps back, and from the opposite side of the room, I hurl the blade at the picture my of father. It sinks into the wall, tearing through his left eye. Huh. I had been aiming for his forehead.

Maybe I'm just a little nervous.

"Necali!" My mother screams, her sharp voice rushing up the stairs and slamming into my eardrums. "Downstairs! NOW!"

Great. What did I do this time?

I leave the knife in the wall, and hurry down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I land hard at the bottom, and trudge into the kitchen, where I find both of my parents sitting at the round wooden table, alongside my brother Laurent, and my sisters, Adelphie and Alessandra. Oh, joy. Another guilt-trip session, then? Wonderful.

"So, Necali," my father begins. "Today is reaping day."

"I am aware of this," I say, fighting to keep my voice level. I know exactly where this conversation is going.

Drumming her fingers against the table, my mother looks up with her dark green eyes. The color she passed on to me. "You know what you're doing today," she says, her gaze sharpening. "Correct?"

I clench my fists, the tendons taut against the inside of my wrists, fingernails biting into my palms. "You think I don't know?!" I cry suddenly, pouring as much of my hate into those five words as I possibly can.

"You _will_ volunteer," my father says. It's not a question, not even a command; it's a statement of fact. He sends a threatening glance towards Laurent, who's only two years younger than me, and inclines his head. "I want a victor, and I will get one."

Hot anger boils up in my chest. We've had this discussion before.

My father wants a victor in the family, because he has this obsessive idea that if he manages to get the Reinerston family name into the history books, that it will magically give some purpose to his otherwise pathetic and empty life. And he intends on accomplishing this vicariously, by having one of his children win the Hunger Games. This plan starts with me, since I am the eldest.

If it means having a victor in the family, my father would gladly sacrifice every single one of his children to the Capitol, all in exchange for a little fame. If I don't volunteer and emerge victorious, not only will my father disown me and throw me out of the house, but he will force Laurent to volunteer in two years, and Alessandra to volunteer in five years, and Adelphie to volunteer in eleven years. I don't want to live out on the streets, but even more than that, I love my brother and sisters. I don't want them to suffer like I did, with years of involuntary training culminating with their entry into the Hunger Games after they turn eighteen.

That is why I must win.

I need to save them.

"Do good today, son," my father says, folding his fingers together and leaning on the table, his harsh stare boring a hole through my head.

All of my siblings look to me, their gazes tainted by deep and implacable fear. I am their older brother; I am their role-model. And yet even I must bow down to our parents, because I am afraid, too.

A hiss of breath passes my lips, and I hang my head. The time for anger and hatred will come.

For now, I only feel the sharp, cold sting of betrayal, double-crossed by parents who were supposed to care more about their children than their own petty desire for fame.

* * *

**Stellar Andrews**

* * *

Attrition and I make it to the reapings just in time.

The guy at the registration table gives us both an annoyed glare, and grudgingly pricks our fingers with the blood scanner.

"Attrition Ourin?"

"Yes."

"Stellar Andrews?"

"Uh-huh."

He waves us along, and I send him an angry look behind his back. He doesn't need to be such a jerk.

I kiss Attrition goodbye, then find my way over to one of the front rows of the female section, but there is hardly enough room for me to squeeze in between two chatty girls. They give me a glare, before turning their attention up to the stage.

Up in front of everyone, our mayor taps the microphone. "Hello," she says, her old, weak voice barely loud enough to hear, even with the speakers. "Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth annual reapings."

She goes on to recite the same speech she gives every year and reads the Treaty of Treason, then hands the microphone off to the escort.

"Why, hello District Two!" the excitable woman cries, her voice high and bubbly. Her halo of fluffy golden hair bobs up and down with each over-exaggerated footstep, and with a lightly tanned hand she waves to the audience. "My name is Champagne LaBoux, and as always, I am greatly honored to be your escort!" A couple of people applaud her. "Well, ladies first!"

She reaches a petit hand into the glass bowl, and withdraws a single name. "Venus Mylar!"

I shove my way through the claustrophobic crowd of eighteen-year-olds, and finally stumble out onto the empty dirt, holding my arms out to keep my balance. I look up to the stage, my eyes fixed on the escort. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Ascending the steps with as much dignity as I can muster, I walk over to the escort and plant myself in front of her, almost stubbornly. My parents had better be watching me right now.

"Oh? And your name, darling?"

"Stellar Andrews."

Champagne flails her arms with excitement, and gives me a bright smile. "I just love volunteers, and such a pretty name, too! Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, Stellar!" With a sweep of her hand, she crosses the stage to the other bowl of names. "Now, let's see who your lucky male companion will be!"

* * *

**Necali Reinerston**

* * *

At the reapings, after I've signed in, I meet up with my friend, Viktor.

"Hey, ugly," he says, slapping me on the back.

"Hey, weak sauce," I reply, punching his arm.

"Rat-face."

"Chicken arms."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

He pushes my back, and I go stumbling forwards, throwing my arms out to keep from falling onto the ground. Training partner or not, he's going to pay for that.

I hook my ankle under his knee, and pull his leg out from under him. He falls and sprawls out on his back, and I roll over and leap forward, pressing both hands against his neck.

"No fair," he struggles to say. "That was a cheap shot."

I release him, and help him to his feet. "Yeah, but a cheap shot can keep you alive in the Games. It's all about context, my friend."

"But you're still in District Two," Viktor says, running a hand through his black hair to dislodge any pebbles or dust. "And 'context' tells me that you're a jerk, because that _was_ a cheap shot, whether you admit it or not."

I shrug. "I still won, regardless."

Viktor waves his hand dismissively. "Whatever."

The clock tower strikes two, indicating that everyone should be in their appropriate places.

"Good luck," Viktor says, giving me a mock-salute as he heads off to join the other seventeen-year-olds. I give him a slight nod, and proceed to situate myself at the front of the eighteen-year-old crowd, much to the chagrin of my competitors. A few of them, I know, want to volunteer today. But I need to beat them all.

After our mayor gives a ten-minute speech, she hands the microphone off to our escort, the fittingly named Champagne LaBoux. She's been the District Two escort for three years, including this one, and her personality can only be described as bubbly. Bubbly, and a little stupid.

Okay, maybe a lot stupid.

Champagne chooses a female name first, but a blond-haired girl rushes forward and almost slams against the stage, screaming that she volunteers. Champagne squeals with excitement, happy to get a volunteer, as if she didn't expect to get one from a career district, then moves on to the male tribute.

"Odin-"

"I volunteer!" I scream, wrestling with the tall, dark-haired guy next to me. He viciously claws at the side of my face, but I deliver one swift punch to the underside of his jaw, and he staggers back, clutching his now bleeding mouth. Weakling. He wouldn't last one day in the arena.

Champagne beckons towards me, saying, "Please, please, darling, up onto the stage!" I comply, and she offers me the microphone. "Your name?"

"Necali Reinerston."

The escort - now _my_ escort - smiles, her eyes and nose wrinkling up into an overjoyed grin. "Excellent! I just love getting volunteers!" Turning out to face the audience, she throws her golden arm out into a wide, sweeping wave, and she says, "Thank you so much, District Two! Happy Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

* * *

**Stellar Andrews**

* * *

"Well, Stellar, I didn't think you'd actually volunteer," my father says, eyebrow raised.

I flick my hair back and smile. "I guess I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?"

My mother crosses her legs, giving me a mirthless grin. "Disappointment can still be considered a surprise, my dear."

Why does she always have to say things like that? I furrow my brow in an attempt to keep from crying. "No. I will be famous, and rich, and I will make you proud."

The twins, Brilliance and Pride, both latch onto me in a hug, and I reluctantly return the favor. They're both only thirteen, and yet my parents already think that they're more successful than I am. It's not fair.

"Did you bring my token?" I ask Pride.

He nods, and from his pocket he pulls a pair of pearl earrings, given to me by my mother for my tenth birthday. Putting them both on, I allow myself a small smile. I am going to the Capitol.

I _will_ win the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, and I _will_ make my parents proud.

* * *

**Necali Reinerston**

* * *

I pull Laurent, Adelphie, and Alessandra into a hug, and we remain still for a few minutes, completely silent. They know what might happen to me, even though I want to believe that I will definitely win, no matter what. I might not come back.

_I may never see any of them again._

A resurgence of anger floods throughout me, and the hatred I feel towards my parents only intensifies. I never wanted this.

I never wanted to volunteer.

Before I get a chance to fully say goodbye, my father shoos everyone out of the room, leaving us alone together. He places a hand on my shoulder, a small smirk of approval upon his face. I am struck by a sudden wave of shame and revulsion when I realize that finally receiving some semblance of respect from my father, even though he is the person I hate most in the world, actually brings me a twisted sense of satisfaction.

"You are going to win, aren't you?"

I narrow my eyes. What kind of question is that? "No, I'm going to get myself killed in the bloodbath just to piss you off." I roll my eyes, and turn away from him. "Of course I'm going to win."

He smiles. "Make me proud out there."

I can't take it anymore. "I hate to break it to you, but I didn't volunteer just to earn your pride."

The confusion in his resulting glare almost makes me happy. "Necali, I don't understand what you mean."

I spin around and fly towards him, bringing my face within inches of his. His gray, piercing eyes briefly widen with fear, and I almost laugh. I am exactly three inches shorter than him, but at this moment, I feel as if I tower over his pathetic being. "When you and mother are old, and alone, and childless, maybe then you'll _understand_."

* * *

**Tell me what you guys think!**

**If I didn't portray your tribute correctly, let me know.  
**


	5. District Three Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Drake Ignis, District Three Escort**

* * *

"Chop chop!" I cry, clapping my hands together. "We need to be ready to go in thirty minutes!"

The head Peacekeeper shoots me a totally unnecessary glare, and I respond with an equally nasty sneer. "Get going, underling."

He narrows his eyes, but says silent, like a good underling should.

Running a hand through my spiked-up hair, I let loose one of my superstar smiles, and I can practically hear all of the ladies swooning over my awesomeness. Being this sexy should be a crime.

I spot one of the handymen, scooting the film camera across the stage, and I hold my chin in contemplation. I have a good side, and I have a great side, and that camera had better be filming my great side.

"Make sure that camera captures my left side," I say. "I want the entire nation to witness my immaculate handsomeness."

* * *

**Zeno Atticus, District Three Male**

* * *

I rest my chin on the white windowsill, and exhale through my nose. The burst of air sends a dead fly skittering across the faded white paint, and the dried carcass falls to the cold, exposed panels of rough wood that form our floor.

Outside of my third-story apartment, the sun tentatively lightens the eastern skies, spreading blood red tendrils of light throughout the thick, polluted clouds that never seem to leave the horizon. The clock on the wall says that it's not even six O'clock, and yet both of my parents are already at their jobs, wasting their lives in the factories, killing themselves slowly with mindless labor. I dread the day when I have to enter into the work force, vacantly tapping away at a keyboard or robotically assembling some computer chip. I am not very good at being vacant or mindless. Surely such a profession, if it can even be called a profession, would kill me.  
No. I want to create things.

In the alleyway below my window, there are bags and bags of garbage, all covered in the fine layer of gray ash that perpetually falls from the sky, thrown up by the huge chimneys that constantly churn out acrid pillars of thick brown smoke. I am lucky to not suffer from asthma; asthmatics tend to die off rather quickly here in District Three.

On the wire that runs between my apartment complex and the two-story houses on the other side of the alley, a little gray pigeon sits, wearing a hat and coat of ashes. It blinks furiously, trying in vain to dislodge the particulates that have accumulated at the corners of its eyes.

Poor bird.

I hear footsteps behind me, and someone flicks the back of my head. The thump of the impact resonates on the inside of my skull.

I don't turn around, because I know that seeing me angry will only give Warrick undeserved satisfaction.

"Good morning, brat," he mutters.

I lift my gaze to look at my older brother, but I don't respond.

"Speak when you're spoken to!" he shouts, pushing me off of my chair. I tumble to the ground, but still I keep my mouth shut. He'll get bored of this eventually. Just as he pulls me up by the collar of my shirt, Jethro, my oldest brother, intervenes.

"Cut it out!" he shouts, pulling Warrick off of me.

As Warrick stumbles across the floor, his face scrunches up into a hateful glare. He points an accusatory finger at me, but looks at Jethro. "You always side with him!"

"Because he's never the one who instigates the fights," Jethro says calmly.

Warrick opens his mouth to say something, but instead chooses to pick up a book and throw it against the opposite wall, and then he screams and runs out of the room.

Warrick is usually a big jerk, but today he's especially on edge because of the reapings.

Jethro sighs, and gives me an apologetic look. "Well, that could have gone better."

Nodding, I get to my feet, shaking the dust from my mop of black, curly hair. "Yes, but remember: this is Warrick you're talking about."

"Give him a break," Jethro says, pulling me into a sideways hug as we walk out of our apartment and into the dingy, dimly-lit hallway. "He's just a little stressed because of the reapings."

I look down at the ground, and watch the stairs pass under our feet, one by one. "I know. I am, too."

Jethro throws his head back and laughs, pulling me closer. "Looking at you, I'd never guess. Are you really that worried?"

Reluctantly, I nod.

"Well, don't be. Worrying is pointless."

His argument is logical, but still. There are one thousand, four hundred, and eighty-four children in District Three who are eligible for the Hunger Games, as of last year's census and approximations. Last year, there were three thousand, one hundred, and sixty-eight pieces of paper in the bowl of male names, and I am going to assume that the number is the same this year. My name is written on exactly two of them.

That means, assuming the population in District Three has remained stable over the last year, the escort has less than a one tenth of one percent chance of drawing my name.

So, statistically speaking, I should be safe.

Then again, statistically speaking, the Capitol shouldn't have won the Rebellion, either.

* * *

**Rumor Cobalt, District Three Female**

* * *

I smooth out my dress to remove the wrinkles in the light gray fabric, though my attempts are mostly in vain. This dress sat at the back of my closet for years, all the while gathering dust. But today is an oh-so-special day, so I figure I might as well look nice.

"Dancing in the rain!" someone sings, their throaty voice muffled by the thin wall between my room and the next. "Dancing in the rain with my sunshine, twirling with my lady, oh so fine!"

The voice belongs to my grandma.

I listen to her song, and I smirk at the strangeness of the old lyrics, written long before I was even born. My grandfather wrote the song for her shortly after they met. He died almost two decades ago. My grandmother sings the song all the time at the most random hours, and even though she's kind of insane, I think that she's aware enough to remember that my grandpa wrote it for her. I think that she sings the song whenever she misses him.

"Let's go and have some fun tonight, let's not go home 'til the morning light! I only need you my beautiful dear, when we're together there's nothing to fear! We'll fly away on blue jay wings, and go find ourselves some wedding rings!"

I cross the hallway and lean against doorway, my arms crossed. She sits in her wheelchair, completely oblivious to my presence, flicking her wrists in rhythm with the song, a bright and cheery smile upon her wrinkled face. A thin halo of wispy white hair hovers around her aged face, bouncing up and down as she dances to the music.

"Having fun, Grandma?"

She sends me a dreamy grin, but keeps on waving her hands around as if she didn't hear me.

I sigh. It's time for breakfast, anyways. I push her wheelchair down the hallway and out into the kitchen, where I find my mother, father, younger sister, and older brother all sitting at the breakfast table, stabbing their forks into their food.

"Late again," my father mumbled through a mouth full of food. "What took you so long, Ramona?"

Heaving a sigh, I park my grandmother next to the table, and pour myself a bowl of cereal. He can't even remember my name, the result of an electrical accident the happened four years ago. I know that I'm supposed to be all sympathetic and understanding of his mental state, but I've grown tired of my father's inability to even remember my name. "I'm just late all the time. Why do you even ask anymore?"

My father mumbles into his plate of eggs, but says nothing else.

I'm just never good enough, am I? Never good enough for these people who claim to be my family.

I stare at the bowl, and shake my head. I don't want to deal with them this morning, on today of all days. Pouring the dry cereal back into the box, I place the bowl back into the cabinet with mock-gentleness.

"I'm just going to go," I say, looking over to my parents. They don't even acknowledge my words.

Rolling my eyes, I walk over, plant a kiss on my grandma's cheek, and leave my house without so much as another whisper.

I trudge along the narrow streets, and squint up at the tainted sky. A faint brown haze hovers around the horizon, though there is less smog today than I've seen in quite a while.

Standing at the corner of the produce market is my friend Cambridge, twirling a strand of black hair around her finger, and puckering her lips for no apparent reason. When she catches sight of me, her face lights up and she waves to me. "Hey, Rumor!"

I return the gesture. Cambridge is one of the few people who deserves a smile from me.

"Where's Nova?" I ask, furrowing my brow.

She shrugs. "I dunno. He said he had some business to take care of, but that he'd catch up with us at the reaping."

I give a curt nod. "Alright."

Cambridge raises both of her eyebrows, giving her an oddly surprised expression, and her face breaks into another smile. "Well, let's go, then!"

* * *

**Zeno Atticus**

* * *

Jethro and I have to walk eighteen miles to the reaping, since they take place in a different town than our own. By the end of our trek, my feet are tired and my back is sore, and I don't look forward to walking all the way back home. Warrick follows far behind us, unwilling to speak to either me or Jethro.

At least this part of the district is a little cleaner. There are no ashes on the ground, no piles of garbage, and the surrounding buildings are covered in only a thin layer of black grime. But the sky still has that suffocating grayish brown taint. I wish I could move to somewhere where the sky is blue, like it's supposed to be.

Jethro leaves my side, and the stream of children leads me to the registrar, where a hostile man in a blue jacket yanks my hand over and stabs my index finger with a needle. I involuntarily let out a weak yelp.

"Grow a spine, kid," the man mutters. The blood scanner glows green and lets out a beep, and he angrily waves me along, as if I am nothing more than a vile dog.

I shuffle over to the thirteen-year-olds section and stand next to a blond boy. He looks just as afraid as I feel, and we exchange a look of nervous horror.

Approximately, there is a one in eleven chance of a thirteen-year-old being chosen this year, based upon last year's tessarae data. That's equal to a little more than nine percent. But according to past Hunger Games, a thirteen-year-old's odds of survival are sixty-three to one. In the Forty-Eighth Hunger Games, a thirteen-year old girl from District Twelve won, after poisoning three other people and watching a muttation kill her last competitor. But she is the only one.

Up on the stage our mayor gives his speech, speaking about how lucky we are to have such a merciful Capitol, and how the Hunger Games are a vital reminder of the consequences of rebellion. I wonder how he can tell such big lies with such a straight face.

A man with a black leather jacket and dark red harem pants then takes the microphone, shooting the cameras a brilliant white smile. When he whips his head towards the audience, his fringe of black hair, streaked with bright orange and red, goes flying with the movement. I had forgotten how weird our escort is.

"Ladies and gentlemen of District Three, welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" he says, as if the reapings are a good thing. "My name is Drake Ignis, and I am overjoyed to call myself the District Three escort. Let's begin with the male tribute."

He reaches an overly-manicured hand into the glass bowl, and withdraws the slip of paper slowly, doing his best to play up the suspense. I roll my eyes. This will take forever.

Finally, he brings the paper up to eye-level, and reads off the name. "Zeno Atticus."

My heart skips a beat, and I feel the sting of tears pricking the corners of my eyes. He just called my name. I can't hide behind the statistics any longer; I am going to die.

I spin around to see Jethro standing on the sidelines, his lips slightly parted and eyes wide in a mask of blank horror.

"Jethro!" I scream, the saline now pouring down my face. "Jethro!"

All my oldest brother can do is stare as the Peacekeepers haul me up onto the stage, violently ripping me from any semblance of security I had. I don't want to be here. I am too young to die.

The escort gives me a pitying stare.

I sniff, and force myself to calm down. I need to look strong for the sponsors. I need to prove to them that I can hold it together.

Wiping my hand across my face, I nod to Drake.

Drake nods back, and turns to the audience. "Now let's see about the female tribute, shall we?"

* * *

**Rumor Cobalt**

* * *

I stand in line next to Cambridge, and once we pass the lady with the blood scanner, I look out across the clearing, but I cannot find Nova. Where could he be?

Finally I spot him, standing over in the corner of the male section, and I wave to him. Just as he notices me, and returns the wave, the mayor calls for all of us to take our places, and I lose my chance to greet him.

I grudgingly stick myself on the end of the sixteen-year-old section, and let out a huff. Reapings are such a waste of time.

The mayor talks at length about blah blah this, and we-love-the-Capitol that, and whatever.

Our escort, named Drake, then takes the microphone and proceeds to make a fool of himself up on stage, flipping his reddish black hair all around everywhere, and dancing in his poofy red pants. Good grief.

He talks about how great District Three is, even though I doubt he means anything he says, and then proceeds to pick the male tribute. Some pathetic, pale little kid bursts out crying in the thirteen-year-old section, and the Peacekeepers have to drag him up onto the stage, where he stands, sniveling in front of the entire country. What a wimp.

The escort then reaches into the other bowl, and withdraws another slip of paper, taking his sweet time.

After an eternity, he fully unfolds the piece of paper, and reads off the name. "Rumor Cobalt!"

Oh.

A brief moment of numb shock overtakes me. Rumor Cobalt? That's me.

Happy day, oh happy day. I get to go to the Capitol. And die in the Hunger Games.

I smile coldly at the cameras, hoping that the fools in the Capitol can see the disdain on my face. I want them to know how much I hate them.

Unlike the male tribute, I willingly leave my spot in the crowd and approach the stage, maintaining the bravest face I can manage. I can't look weak. One of the Peacekeepers offers me his hand, to help me up the stairs, but I refuse to take it. I don't need his help. I don't want his help. The Peacekeeper may be from District Three, but he works for the enemy, and therefore I shall not acknowledge his existence.

I unwillingly mount the stage and walk up to the escort. Biting my tongue to keep from crying, I allow Drake Ignis to link my hand with the other tribute.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Zeno Atticus and Rumor Cobalt!" our escort says, flashing a bright, cocky smile to the entire audience. "Good luck in the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

* * *

**Zeno Atticus**

* * *

I pick at the corners of my shirt, unwilling to make eye contact with the two Peacekeepers assigned to watch over me during my detainment in the Justice Building.

My parents won't be able to say goodbye, because they had to work today, and they can't walk eighteen miles fast enough to get here in time. It deeply saddens me that I won't be able to see them again.

Jethro barges through the door and wraps me in an embrace, his eyes red and puffy from unshed tears. "I am so sorry, Zeno. If I could have volunteered…" He sets me down, and places his hands on my shoulders. "I would have."

I frown and look down at my feet. I really wish he wasn't too old. I don't want to go to the Hunger Games. "Thanks anyways."

His lower lip quivers, but he says nothing else.

The door opens again and, much to my surprise, Warrick shuffles in, clutching a small object in his right hand. "Hey," he whispers, his voice hoarse and low.

"Hey," I respond, narrowing my eyes. What does he want?

Warrick fiddles with the small object, but otherwise remains stationary. Finally, he holds the object out to me, as an offering. It is the rope bracelet he used to wear back when he was little. It still fits me, though.

"Take it," he says, averting his eyes from me. Does he do it out of anger… or out of shame? "It should be your token. I…" His voice cracks, and he lifts his gaze to meet mine. Normally, his eyes hold rage. But right now… all I see is anguish. "I know it can't make up for everything I've done to you. But maybe… it can be a start."

I spin the bracelet around my index finger, then roll it down around my wrist. "Maybe it can." Despite myself, a small smile finds its way onto my face. I hadn't expected him to act this way, but it's a pleasant surprise. I look to him. "Thank you, Warrick."

* * *

**Rumor Cobalt**

* * *

"Well, Rumor, I can't say that I have much hope in you," my mother says, leaning her chin on her fist and staring at me with a disappointed glare. "I'm sure that Vetch would have won, but you? Not so much."

A smirk sounds from the opposite side of the room. Vetch, my older brother, lays himself out lengthwise on the couch, and throws his arm across his eyes. "You can say that again."

I frown, and look out the window. This will probably be the last time they ever see me, and this is how they choose to say goodbye? Maybe it's better that I'm leaving.

"Who knows?" Cherish, my younger sister, says in a sugar-coated voice. "Maybe you will come home, and make all of us rich." I know that Cherish doesn't believe a word of it. She hates me, and I hate her. Cherish only says things like that whenever my parents are around, so they'll falsely believe that she's just an oh-so-sweet little angel.

I hate my family.

"Dancing in the rain," my grandma mumbles, holding something yellow in her ancient, trembling fingers. "With my sunshine." I walk over and take the object from her. It is a hair clip, made from a soft, pastel yellow stone, with a small blue starflower painted on the wider end. I've owned this clip for a very, very long time, and I'm glad to have it for my token.

"Thank you, grandma," I say softly, leaning down and pulling her into an embrace.

In a moment of surprising lucidity, she returns the gesture, her bony hands pressing against my back. "You're welcome, dear."

Behind me, someone clears their throat, and I spin around to see Nova and Cambridge standing in the doorway, both of them wearing a look of fearful concern. I give them a forced smile, because I can't give then any other kind. I am too angry, and afraid, for a real smile.

"You're going to come back, right?" Nova asks, crossing his arms with discomfort. He's never been very good at saying goodbye.

Seeing Nova this uncomfortable makes me giggle, not because I like to see him suffer, but because he looks so strange. In any case, I am glad to have a reason to laugh. "I hope so. I really do."

Nodding reluctantly, he heaves a huge, dejected sigh. "I hope so, too."

* * *

**Tell me what you thought!**

**In case you didn't know, the blog is up: (remove the spaces) www. atmosphere hunger games .blogspot .com**

**If you would be so kind, please let me know which 6 tributes on the blog stand out to you the most, and why. If you already have, then thank you.  
**


	6. District Four Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Charlotte Liselle, District Four Escort**

* * *

The harsh squeal of brakes assaults my ears, and the train comes to an abrupt halt, jolting me out of my daydream.

"Are we there yet?" I murmur, resting my chin on top of my folded arms. "It's practically been a day and a half."

"Actually," the overly perky attendant says, "it's only been five and a half hours. But nonetheless, we have arrived at District Four."

"Finally!" I cry, jumping to my feet, my puffy white dress filling up half of the walkway. Outside of the windows, I can see an endless expanse of blue water, stretching all the way past the horizon. My, my, how I've missed District Four. We don't have any oceans near the Capitol.

* * *

**Waverly Capri, District Four Female**

* * *

I stand at the edge of a short pier, my dark brown hair pushed back by a weak ocean breeze. The greenish blue water undulates beneath me, slowly carrying little pieces of kelp and red seaweed to the shore. High above, the sky is a brilliant shade of blue, the kind of pure color that only shows up maybe five or six times a year.

Inhaling deeply, I narrow my eyes and shift my gaze to the Victor's Village, sitting high up on a bluff across the bay. District Four currently has seven surviving victors, the most recent being Sapphire Capri. My amazing, wonderful, rich, pretty, talented, strong, glowing, intelligent, witty, absolutely _wretched_ cousin. If I have to endure one more idiot gushing over just how infallible and perfect she is, I will kill them on the spot. Brutally.

I still remember when she volunteered, exactly eight years ago today.

My aunt and uncle were actually quite surprised when she walked up to the stage and announced her voluntary entry into the Hunger Games. Their surprise quickly turned into pride. Overwhelming, crushing, disgusting pride.

When she returned triumphant after ten long days of battle, everything changed.

Everyone suddenly knew her name. She brought great honor to the Capri family, as my relatives were only too happy to point out. Food, fame, money, attractive men, and a big freaking mansion on top of a hill. What more could a girl ask for?

I, little Waverly Capri, was lost among the outpouring of praise and adoration, all directed towards my oh-so-wonderful cousin. A million people asked me, 'What's it like to be related to a victor?' and at first I told them that it was great. Because it was. I actually enjoyed all of the benefits and extra wealth, at least for a week or two. But it is very difficult to shine while living in the shadow of a star.

So, one month to the day of my cousin's return, at the tender age of eight, I signed myself up for the training academy, and I have never looked back. I will volunteer in two years, after I turn eighteen.

I want the fame and fortune. I want strangers to greet me on the streets, and tell me how perfect I am, even though they really know nothing about me. I want to savor the glory of victory.

Above all, though, I want to outstrip my cousin. I want to grind her face into the dirt.

No longer will Waverly Capri be a pathetic and unknown planet in orbit around the superstar named Sapphire. Oh, no.

I will become a galaxy, shining billions of times brighter than my darling cousin ever could.

Sapphire Capri will soon only be remembered as the cousin of District Four's greatest victor, Waverly Capri.

I will be the legend.

Cascade, my training partner, walks up beside me, and her arrival breaks me out of my thoughts. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" she asks.

"Yeah," I reply, crossing my arms in front of my chest. A beat of awkward silence passes between us, so I ask, "Aren't you planning on volunteering today?"

Cascade sheepishly rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. "Actually, I'm not."

Well, that's a surprise. "And when did you plan on telling me this?"

Her gray eyes shift to meet mine. "I only decided a couple of days ago."

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. "What's the matter? Too chicken?"

Shrugging, she looks out across the bay. "It's not that. I just… I have obligations here, you know? And if I go to the Hunger Games, either I die, or I end up in that place," she says, pointing to the Victor's Village. "With your cousin for a neighbor."

That's one of the reasons why I consider Cascade a friend: she hates Sapphire almost as much as I do. When I win the Games, I will choose to live outside of the Village, if only to avoid my cousin.

Still, I can't respect Cascade's decision. "Don't be weak," I say. "Volunteer. Win. Make all those years of training count for something."

"Well, I'm fit," she says. "And I know how to defend myself. That training wasn't totally pointless."

"But-"

"You aren't going to change my mind, Waverly. I am firm in my decision."

Even though I think her reasons are weak, I have to admire her bullheadedness. I swear, if we weren't friends, we'd be sworn enemies.

* * *

**Nemo Dedecus, District Four Male**

* * *

I awaken to the sound of a woodpecker, boring a hole into a nearby maple tree. With a start, I realize that this isn't my room.

At first I remain still, unable to remember where I am. My arms are folded across my chest, and I can feel the echo of my heart beating inside of my ribcage. Tall grass surrounds me, swaying in a weak breeze, and silver drops of dew cling to the outside of my black jacket. The surface of my exposed face burns from the cold.

Slowly I stand, shivering, my stiff knees cracking in protest, and rotate my shoulders to get the blood flowing again. After an entire night of sleeping out in the cold, every part of my aches.

Judging by the position of the sun, it's around eight in the morning, which means I have less than six hours to prepare myself for the reapings. I am going to volunteer, to bring my family and my district honor. At least, that's the stock answer I give everyone else when they ask me.

I look back to my house, which is really a small mansion, all things considered, and I feel my face contort into an involuntary grimace. Because my father is out of town, meeting with his business partners and hammering out a plan to merge two banking franchises, no one stopped my mother from locking me outside. She hates me. Always has, always will.

Following the rocky path down to the ocean shore, I watch the morning sunlight play off of the waves as a circle of seagulls floats on the morning breeze. I inhale deeply, savoring the nostalgic scent of briny ocean air. I've lived next to the ocean for my entire life.

I saunter through the blue morning shadows, my footfalls crunching on the rocky shore. I lean down and pick up a flat, black rock. I toss it up in the air and catch it, then pull my right arm back and throw it at an angle, flicking my wrist to give it just the right amount of torque, and it goes skipping across the water. It strikes the surface eight times before finally sinking below the waves.

I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and stare out across the sea.

Do I really want to volunteer today? It's my last year, my last chance to prove myself. Perhaps I should let some other fool volunteer in my stead, and save myself the trouble.

A familiar voice draws my attention. "Master Dedecus!" It belongs to Marielle, our forty-something-year-old servant. She hurries down the hill and runs up to me, obviously flustered. Hanging off of her left arm is a basket, covered with a floral towel. Something smells good.

"Master Dedecus, I bring you your breakfast." She lifts the towel, and underneath I see a good-sized pile of bread rolls, all slathered with raspberry jam.

"I can see that," I respond, eying the food. My pride prevents me from taking one of the rolls.

She frowns. "Master Dedecus, you know why your mother locked you out."

I pour as much venom into my gaze as humanly possible. "Five minutes past curfew, Marielle! For that I deserved to spend the entire night out in fifty-degree weather? Do you have any idea how cold that is?!"

"Actually you were six minutes past-"

"Like I care! I'm eighteen, anyways! Why do I even have a curfew? She just looks for any excuse to push me away!"

The woman visibly deflates. "Nemo, your mother loves you."

I throw my head back with an exaggerated sigh, and finally relent by grudgingly taking one of the bread rolls. "She has a strange way of showing it," I say through a mouth full of bread. "My father loves me more than she does. And I'm not even biologically related to him."

"Master Dedecus!" she cries, clasping her hand over he mouth in surprise. "Do not speak of such things!"

I stuff the last piece of bread crust in my mouth and rub my hands together to get rid of the crumbs. I am so tired of everyone denying the truth. "Why? Because it incriminates my mother? It's not that difficult to connect the dots, Marielle. Both of my 'parents' have blond hair. I have brown hair. Both of my 'parents' have blue eyes. I have brown eyes. I look like my mother. And I look nothing like my father." A compulsive half-smirk forces its way onto my face, even though I find no humor in the situation. "Half of the district knows about her affair, and that I only live here because my legal father was kind enough to accept the resulting bastard as his own son." I look to her, and her expression says it all. "That about sums it up, doesn't it?"

She falters for words, before finally hitching the basket up onto her shoulder. "You do not still plan on volunteering today, do you Master Dedecus?"

_Nice change of subject, Marielle._ "I do. Eleven years of my life I've spent training. I am going to volunteer today."

With a regretful expression, she looks to me, her lower lip trembling. "Master Dedecus…" It almost seems like she will say something significant, but she instead shakes her head. "I will be cheering for you."

A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, this time genuine. "Thank you, Marielle."

* * *

**Waverly Capri**

* * *

I roll my eyes and let out a sigh, waiting for our illustrious mayor to finish his speech. Why do all of his public addresses have to be so long-winded and boring? With every word he says, I grow more and more anxious. A cold wall of fear surges through my chest, and my hands tremble uncontrollably at my sides.

Why am I so uneasy?

_I want to volunteer today._

The realization strikes me like lightning, but there is no doubt in my mind. Cascade won't be volunteering, so there will be no conflict of interest between us. And if I wait until next year, I will have to endure three hundred and sixty four more days of people telling me just how unbelievably amazing my cousin is, and how I can never live up to the standard she has set.

No. I have to win the Games as soon as possible.

I have trained. I have prepared. I am ready.

As our mayor keeps on speaking, everyone starts to get fidgety, eyes darting around and hands scratching at necks and feet tapping against the ground. Finally our young escort takes the hint, and shoos our mayor offstage.

"Hello, everyone!" she cries, her straight, platinum-white hair swaying with the movement. "The day has once again arrived where two tributes shall be chosen, and where a potential victor shall embark upon their path to triumph! My name is Charlotte Liselle, and I shall act as your escort. Ladies first!"

Into the glass bowl she reaches, and with a delicate hand clad in a thin lacy glove she pulls out one of the names, slowly and carefully, as if the cheap paper were instead gold of the highest purity.

I can feel the weight of the small silver compass in my pocket, the personal item I will be taking with me into the arena. I keep it with me at all times, and, well… it's a fitting token.

Charlotte unfolds the paper, and a name rolls off of her silver lips, but I don't hear it.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I cry, stepping forward from the crowd. My blood pounds in my ears, louder than waves pounding against the shore. Everyone turns to look at me, and in this one glorious moment, I know what Sapphire felt like when she volunteered. I now know what it feels like to be instantly elevated to celebrity status.

As I walk up to the stage, everything swims around me in a lethargic, overly bright parade of color. An indescribable flurry of emotion rushes through me, completely foreign and confusing, though I can firmly identify one emotion in particular: relief. Never again will they disdainfully compare me to the almighty Sapphire. I will prove to them that it is _she_ who should be compared to _me_.

The District Four escort waves me over, and thrusts the microphone towards me. "Please, let all of these wonderful people know your name, dear volunteer!"  
I feel a surge of pride. Tell them my name? I would scream it, if I could. "Waverly Capri."

I see Cascade standing in the front row, looking up at me with complete and utter disbelief. She wasn't expecting this, but then again, neither was I. A murmur ripples throughout the audience, but I ignore it. They know me because I am Sapphire's cousin. But they will _remember_ me because I will be a victor. Oh, how I have been craving this moment.

Charlotte nods cheerily, and thankfully doesn't mention my cousin. "Now let's see who your lucky male compatriot will be!"

* * *

**Nemo Dedecus**

* * *

I skulk along the paved cobblestone road that cuts through the heart of the town, folding my arms as tightly as I can get them. My body still hasn't fully recuperated from sleeping out in the cold, but at least I've regained the feeling in my toes.

The streets are packed with chastising parents and nervous children, all headed to the center of town, where the reapings take place every year. I can feel a few people staring at me, but they avert their gaze whenever I make eye contact. They know about my parentage, and for whatever reason, they think that I don't notice their hushed whispers and pitying looks. I stopped hating them a long time ago, though. Now I'm just sick of it.

As I wait in line to register myself, an arm wraps around my neck, pulling me into an involuntary hug. "Nemo! What's happenin', man?"

"Jake!" I cry, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. I free myself from the headlock, and punch him in the arm.

My best friend looks at me with mock-hurt, and over-dramatically rubs his injured arm. "I can't believe you did that." His lower lip begins to tremble. "And I called you my friend."

"Cry me a river."

"You're so hurtful, Nemo!"

I roll my eyes, and offer my right hand to the lady at the registration table. She pricks my index finger, and when the blood scanner gives her the O-K, she waves me along. Jake and I both head over to the front of the male section, where all of the eighteen-year-olds are.

"Is that the same escort we had last year?" I ask Jake, referring to the ridiculous Capitol woman up on the stage. She looks similar, but her entire color scheme has changed. She used to be blue; now she is white.

Jake opens his mouth, but his response is cut off by the chiming of the clock tower, indicating that it's time for the reapings to begin.

"Please, ladies and gentlemen," our mayor says, "calm yourselves. The day has come, as it does every year, where we shall send off our bravest man and our bravest woman to the Hunger Games, where they shall fight for the right to be called 'Victor'!"

He wastes another ten minutes talking about the Capitol's mercy and kindness, but I know that none of his words are genuine.

Finally, after too long, the escort basically kicks the mayor off-stage, and proceeds with the drawing.

"Anastasia Kress!" she cries cheerily, twisting the paper between her fingers.

Before Anastasia can respond, another girl steps forward. Her pale face shines with cold fear, but her bluish gray eyes are filled with hopeful desperation. I think I've seen her face before, but I can't remember where.

She ascends the steps up onto the stage, and announces her name: "Waverly Capri!"

That's why she looks familiar. Her cousin won eight years ago.

The crowd all seems taken aback by her volunteering, but I'm not too surprised. It would be interesting if there were two victors in the Capri family. It would definitely bump up their already substantial prestige.

The escort crows over how wonderful it is to have a victor, then moves on to the male bowl. She reaches in slowly, her hand roaming around the pile of names, before her fingers wrap around one in particular.

Moment of truth.

I need to leave this place. I need to escape all of the callous glares, all of the cruel, hollow faces who choose to judge me based on my mother's weakness. I cannot stay here.

Stepping forward, I shout, "I volunteer as tribute!"

A strange smile stretches across the escort's silver lips. "Please, join us, young man! Name, please?"

As I walk up onto the stage, I realize, _I just volunteered. I am finally leaving this hellhole. _"Nemo Dedecus."_  
_

I cannot suppress my smile as the escort locks my hand with Waverly's.

"Congratulations, District Four tributes!" she cries, clapping for us. "And may the odds-"

"-be ever in your favor," I finish, my voice hardly above a whisper.

* * *

**Waverly Capri**

* * *

"Why didn't you tell us you were planning to volunteer?" my father asks, his arms held out questioningly like a supplicant.

I tap my fingers on the windowsill, staring out across the ocean. "Because I didn't decide until this morning," I say. Quickly, I add, "I was planning to volunteer when I turned eighteen, but... I just couldn't take it anymore."

"Couldn't take what, dear?" my mother asks, her voice almost comically confused.

I spin around to face her. "Don't act like you don't know, mother!" I hiss. "You're the worst of them all! It's always 'Sapphire did this' and 'Sapphire did that' and 'Sapphire is a goddess, Waverly, why can't you be more like HER, WAVERLY?!'" My voice rises like thunder, ringing in my ears, cutting through my own thoughts like a serrated knife. Why can't they ever compare me to _me_? Why does Sapphire always have to set the bar?

My mother seems taken aback. "Waverly, I never knew you felt that way."

"Like hell you didn't," I mutter.

She goes on to make some excuse, but I ignore her. When I become a victor, she won't compare me to Sapphire. Never again.

* * *

**Nemo Dedecus**

* * *

I sit on the couch, twiddling my thumbs. There is no one here to see me.

My father's business meeting is in another town, so we won't be able to say goodbye. My older brother lives all the way across the district, since he decided to live with his wife's family over his own, so he won't be able to see me, either. And my mother wouldn't come to see me even if her life depended on it.

Even so... I wanted her to at least say goodbye.

A small knock sounds from the opposite side of the room. Two brown eyes peek out from behind the door, thin eyebrows raised with curiosity.

"Jake," I say, standing up from the couch. "Glad to see you."

We clasp arms and draw close for a quick hug, wrapping our free arm around the others' shoulder.

"What kind of person would I be if I didn't wish my best friend luck in the friggin' Hunger Games?" he says, shooting me a crooked grin. "I may be crazy, but I'm not a jerk." He rolls his eyes, and sighs. "At least, not _that_ much of a jerk."

The corner of my lips curl up into a smirk. "Thank you."

* * *

**Let me know what you think!**


	7. District Five Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Flex Pulsar, District Five Escort**

* * *

I clack my sharpened teeth together, and smile at one of the District Five citizens. Her resulting look of pure terror almost sends me into hysterics. I doubt that she has ever seen anything so terrifying as me. Oh, no.

After all, I am the perfect contender. I've had two surgeries to improve my eyesight, eight surgeries to boost my muscular strength and endurance, one surgery to whittle my teeth down to sharpened spikes, two surgeries to replace my fingernails with fully retractable metal claws, and numerous other alterations that all contribute to my physical prowess. It's a shame I can't fight in the Hunger Games, because surely I'd win. But oh, well. Being an escort is the next-best thing.

As Miranda Thanes, the District Ten female who competed in the Twenty-Ninth Hunger Games, once said, "We were all made for a purpose. Unfortunately, it seems that my purpose isn't exactly what I had hoped for."

* * *

**Dominic Monipule, District Five Male**

* * *

There is a plant that sits on the counter in my parents' tailoring shop. Recently, the weather has been nearly unbearable, and the little green leaves have wilted and withered in the intense heat.

My mother stands in the doorway that separates our shop from the next, fanning herself with an old magazine, her wavy blond hair floating on the updraft. She leans through to the other shop, speaking to our neighbors with a voice that is soft and low, the red flush of the summer heat wave shining brightly on her plump cheeks. Raising a porcelain hand, she waves to them, and then focuses her full attention on me.

"Dominic?"

"Yeah?"

She drops her fan onto the wooden counter with a small clatter. "Did you hear about Andrew?"

Narrowing my eyes, I respond, "No, I didn't. What happened?"

"Apparently he was attacked by a robber! Stole his money, broke his arm. Isn't that awful?"

I force my mouth to contort into a frown. "It is. I feel bad for him."

In all honesty, I couldn't care less about what happens to Andrew. He and I are supposedly "friends", but I don't value our relationship any more that an elephant values its relationship to an ant. Andrew has absolutely zero importance in District Five, and I really don't like him. I only tolerate his presence because he's like a lapdog, and is always willing to do whatever I tell him to. I only pretend to care about my friends and family to avoid arousing any suspicion, and to preserve the trust and love they feel towards me, since that might actually come in handy one of these days.

My mother places a hand on her chest, right above her heart, and lets out a dejected sigh. "I just hope the boy is alright."

I slide around and hop off of the bar stool. "Yeah, so do I."

Walking over to the front entrance, I lean against the wooden door frame, and look out across the town square. My parents own one of the only two tailoring businesses in all of District Five, which is why we can afford to own a shop in the center of town. They just love the fact that we get to meet so many new people and see so many different things and hear all of the latest gossip and whatever other worthless and trivial things they enjoy.

The true benefit is the wealth.

Our house is bigger and better than all of our neighbors, and since it's built on top of our shop, that makes my home one of the few two-story buildings in the entire district. I love looking down on everyone else. It makes me feel… powerful.

Outside, children gather into a loose crowd, drawn from all corners of the district. Every single on of them is legally required to submit their names to the reaping ball.

The Capitol is so stupid. Only a regime as idiotic as theirs would blatantly oppress their citizens. If they were smart, they would kill us all with kindness. Make us think that they were loving and actually cared. That way, we'd all become complacent and forget how to fight back. But they are stupid, so instead they choose to rule over an entire nation of people who hate them, and waste their money on the Hunger Games, when they could spend the money on weapons, or maybe even some food for their citizens. Complacency tends to strangle revolution in the cradle.

I slide down the door frame and crouch on the balls of my feet, resting my elbows on my knees, and I let out a pent-up sigh.

Last year, my neighbor was reaped for the games, but she was killed in the bloodbath by the District Two male. He literally tore her throat out with his bare hands.

I remember, with surprising clarity, the piercing sorrow of her mother's wail from three houses down. It was one of those visceral sounds that never quite leaves the mind, even years after the fact. And yet, I don't really care that she died. She wasn't worth my sympathies.

Occasionally I see her mother around town, and I made sure to give her my nonexistent condolences, if only to keep up my façade.

It's so much easier to control them when they think I care.

* * *

**Mariah Cassel, District Five Female**

* * *

I sit on the steps of my front porch, my knees pulled up against my chest.

On most days, I go for a walk in the morning, to clear my head and prepare myself for the day. But today, I am too nervous to go for a walk. I'm too nervous to even eat.

However, I refuse to acknowledge why I am nervous. Acknowledging the reason would accredit it, and thus give it power over me, which I will not do. So instead, I force my lips into a smile, and place a strand of blond, wavy hair behind my ear.

Out in the middle of the street, I watch a few local children play a game of tag, holding their hands out and chasing after each other with piercing laughter. My eyes widen as I watch a blond-haired boy purposely push a black-haired girl into the mud, and he doubles over in laughter when the black-haired girl begins to cry. One of their mothers walks over, hands on her hips, and she demands to know what happened.

"He did it," the blond boy says, pointing to the brunette boy standing off to the side.

The girl doesn't say anything, and simply continues to cry. The mother takes the brunette boy by the ear, and he squeals in pain, crying that he is innocent. The mother does not believe him, and the blond child merely snickers and flounces away.

I could have said something. But I didn't.

I should have helped the brunette child.

But now the mother and the children are gone, disappeared into the crowd, and I can no longer let the mother know what really happened.

Resting my chin on my knees, I feel my smile slip, ever so slightly.

I close my eyes, and let out a slow sigh.

"Already taking a nap?" I hear someone say. "It's only ten in the morning."

My smile widens, this time fore real, and I look up to see Theo standing next to me, his gangly arms hanging by his sides and his brown eyes crinkled with a smile.

"Hey Theo," I say quietly, raising my hand in a weak semi-wave.

"My fair lady," he says with mock-chivalry, bowing down to me and offering his hand, "would you be so kind as to grace me with your presence on my journey to the town square?"

Laughing, I take his hand, and he pulls me to my feet. "Of course, dear knight," I respond.

He gives me a half-smirk, and locks eyes with me. I know that he likes me, as in _like_ likes me, but I could never return his affections. And I also know that he is a true friend, because even though he is aware of my feelings towards him, or lack thereof, he still chooses to hang out with me.

I brush the little specks of grime off of my white dress, and adjust the thin straps so they rest more comfortably on my shoulders. "Shall we set off on our trek?"

Holding up a fist and, striking a dramatic pose, he says, "Yes, we shall."

We walk down the dirt road, and I am careful to avoid the mud puddles, to keep my shoes from getting messed up. My family can't afford to pay for more than one pair of dress shoes, so I have to keep these ones as clean as possible for as long as possible.

Along the way, we pass the Daisy House, where the owners have planted bushes and bushes of the white and yellow flowers all around their property. I lean over the white fence, pluck one of the yellow daisies, and place it behind my ear.

"There you go again," Theo mutters. "Stealing the neighbor's things."

I shove his arm, and play with a strand of hair, batting my thick eyelashes, pouring all of my nonexistent seductive charm into a blue-eyed gaze. "But don't I look good?"

Theo heaves a huge sigh. "Yeah, sure." He smirks. "You can steal my daisies anytime."

My jaw drops, but I'm still smiling. "Theo!"

He gives me a quizzical look. "What? All I said was…" His eyes widen with realization, and he bursts out laughing. "I didn't mean it like that, you pervert!"

"Sure you didn't."

"I'm serious!"

"Whatever. I wouldn't want your daisies, anyways."

He hangs his head in mock-shame, and lets out a sigh. "I know."

I pat him gently on the back. "Don't worry, Theo. There's someone-"

"If you tell me that there's someone out there for everyone and that I'm just not looking hard enough, I will slap you."

I place my hand at my side and raise an eyebrow. "Violent, are we? Jeez."

He shrugs halfheartedly. "Nah, just worried about the reapings."

Nodding, in understanding I lower my gaze. "You and me both."

* * *

**Dominic Monipule**

* * *

My three "closest" friends and I hover around the fourteen and fifteen-year-old sections. Marcus makes some half-baked joke, but I laugh anyways, to ensure him that I value his company and friendship. It's good to have friends, even if they're too stupid to realize how much I loathe them and their awful sense of humor.

"Hey, Dom," Konnor says, nudging me.

"Yeah?"

"Were you at the soccer match on Friday?"

"No," I reply. "Sadly, I missed it. I had to help my dad paint my house." Internally, I groan and roll my eyes. Soccer is the most uninteresting, dull, and idiotic game on the face of the planet. I _hate_ soccer. But I once made a comment about how my cousin plays, and Konnor, for whatever reason, took it to mean that I am a total soccer-nut like he is. So I let him believe the lie, since it keeps him thinking that we have something in "common".

Before Konnor can respond, the Mayor claps her hands, and orders all of the kids to get into their appropriate places.

Konnor sighs, and before he sprints off to his designated spot, he says, "Well, anyways, the game was pretty great."

I fake a smile. "Really? Well, you'll have to tell me all about it after the reapings."

He smiles back, before he and his mop of orange hair disappear among the crowd.

Fool.

Up on the stage, our overly-perky middle-aged Mayor gives her pointless speech, which she recites every single year, and then finally passes the "baton of power" (a.k.a. the microphone) to the District Five escort. Not many people scare me, but Flex Pulsar is definitely one of the few who do. He reminds me of a well-tanned shark with lots of black tattoos that snake all across his arms and the sides of his face. The dark brown buzz cut it what really seals the creepy deal, though.

"Hello District Five," he says, flashing a sharp-toothed grin to the cameras. "May we begin?"

He thrusts his clawed hand into the male bowl, and rips out one of the names.

"Dominic Monipule!" he cries, and looks out across the crowd, a rabid light glimmering in his black eyes.

My name.

That was my name, right?

Well, this is unexpected. Time to put on the mask.

I force my knees and lips to start trembling, to convey complete and utter fear, and I let my eyes dart all over the audience. I turn to Marcus with a stricken look. "Dude, you have to volunteer for me!"

Marcus backs away from me, throwing his arms up into the air. "I love you, man, but not _that_ much."

_What?_

"Hector!" I scream-whisper, sure that at least he will take my place.

"Leave me out of this. I am your friend, Dom, but friendship only goes so far."

"Konnor!" I cry, searching for his face, but I see him nowhere, and he gives no response.

This can't be happening. This is why I put up with all of their shit for so long: in case I was ever reaped, they could volunteer instead of me!

"Bastard!" I scream, turning around to Marcus. I pull my arm back, with the full intent of decking him, but my hand is stayed by a sudden realization. When I win the Hunger Games - and I _will_ win - I will order the deaths of all these cretins who claim to care for me. I will slaughter them all.

Stepping back, I calm myself. Then I turn around and proceed to peacefully walk to the stage and ascend the steps.

"It seems we have fighter this year!" Flex cries gleefully. "So much better than last year." He nods, and turns back out to the audience. "Now let's see about our lady tribute!"

* * *

**Mariah Cassel**

* * *

I stand in line, tapping my hand against my leg, wishing that the lady with the blood scanner would just hurry up.

Behind me, I hear a snicker and a murmur, followed by a thinly-veiled slur. Turning slowly, I shift my gaze far enough to see the group behind me, just out of the corner of my peripheral vision. The voices belong to Carris and her posse of bullies.

Of course.

"Ignore them," Theo murmurs, placing a hand around my shoulder. "They aren't worth it."

I give him a smile, even though I'm hurting on the inside. "I know." I can't let the bullies see me sad; that would give them victory.

Finally I let the lady prick my finger, and I hurry over to the seventeen-year-old section, consciously keeping a smile on my face and my chin held high.

"Dyke," I hear someone whisper.

The word stings, but I don't let them know. I _can't_ let them know.

I stand confidently in my spot, even though I feel as if I am about to wilt. I just want them to get this stupid reaping over with so I can leave.

Our frightening escort takes the microphone away from the Mayor, and shows off his row of piranha teeth, which send cold shivers up my spine. "Hello, District Five! As you know, by name is Flex Pulsar, and I am so very lucky to have the privilege of escorting your fine young tributes into battle. But enough about me! Let us proceed with the ceremony." This guy is a total Hunger Games fanatic.

He pulls a name from the male bowl. "Dominic Monipule!"

That name actually rings a bell, though I cannot remember what his face looks like.

Nearby, a blond fourteen-year-old boy breaks down and desperately begs his friends to volunteer for him, though all of his friends understandably refuse to help him. Dominic's fear quickly morphs into rage, and he makes a move to knock out one of his supposed acquaintances. But he suddenly freezes in place, and lowers his fist. Inexplicably, his entire demeanor swings from blindly furious to calm and collected, and he walks up to the escort as if nothing ever happened.

This boy concerns me.

"Next up," Flex cries, ripping one of the slips of paper from the glass bowl. "Mariah Cassel!"

I don't…

What?

That can't be.

He read _my_ name.

Out of all the thousands of girls in District Five, he read my name.

I bite down on the inside of my lip to keep from sobbing. After all, the sponsors don't like crybabies. Slowly, mechanically, I force myself forward. The Peacekeepers guide me up onto the stage, where I bring myself to an abrupt halt in front of the escort.

Locking my hand with Dominic, our escort cries, "Dominic Monipule and Mariah Cassel, your District Five tributes for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" He pumps his fists and screams, almost maniacally, "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

As I look out across the silent crowd, I manage a small smile. This may be the last time I see my home. They might as well remember me as the one who smiled in the face of death.

* * *

**Dominic Monipule**

* * *

"My baby," my mother cries, burying her face in my shoulder. Such an overt display of weakness disgusts me. "My poor, poor baby!"

I play with my necklace, which will act as my token. It has exactly thirty-three black glass beads, each one meant to represent one of my many "friends". It's a shame that none of that is actually true, but the Capitol will like the story, so I'm sticking to it.

"I am so sorry that this happened, Dom," my father says, his bushy brown eyebrows furrowed with concern. Oh, not him too.

Now is a good a time as any.

"Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you."

My mother leans back, and her gaze meets mine, while my father looks on expectantly. "What is it, dear?"

"I don't love you."

Dead silence rings for about five seconds.

"What?!"

"I actually hate both of you," I tell them cheerily. It feels good to tell the truth. "And I hate everyone in this entire district. You're all just blind fools. It's pathetic."

My mother pushes away from me, and scrambles next to my father. I can see her lips trembling. I almost laugh. "Dominic Monipule, where is this coming from? Why are you telling us these lies?"

"You only wish they were lies." I break eye contact, and look out of the window, fixating on the blue sky. "It's the complete truth, I assure you."

No, this time I am not lying. I am the puppet master, and none of them can even see the strings.

* * *

**Mariah Cassel**

* * *

My hands were trembling before the reapings, but now that I have been reaped, they are completely still. I don't understand.

My mother kneels before me, holding my hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs across the backs of my palms. "I love you, Mariah."

"I love you, too," I whisper hoarsely. The words barely pass my lips, but my mother seems to hear them.

My father isn't here to say goodbye. He hates me, and he hates who I am. Actually he hates _what_ I am. But that is unimportant, because my mother is here to say goodbye, and she is the only one I care about.

"Here," she says, pulling a small necklace from her dress pocket. "For your token."

It's a simple thing, really, just a tiny wooden heart dangling at the end of a rope. But it means so much more than words can ever say, because this is her favorite necklace, and she's giving it to me. I made it for her when I was five years old, and my mother kept it for all these years. She wraps it around my neck, knotting it in the back.

Smiling, she cradles my face in her hands. "Make me proud, sweetie."

I place my hands on top of hers, and force my mouth to produce a half-genuine smile, even though I feel like crying. "I will do my best."

A knock sounds on the door, and one of the Peacekeepers leans in. "Your time's up, Mrs. Cassel. You need to leave."

My mother looks down, sighs, then leans forwards and plants a kiss on my forehead. "Don't forget that, no matter what happens, I will always love you. Okay?"

"Okay," I say, my voice cracking.

She stands, and my hand leaves hers.

Without so much as another whisper, she leaves the room.

And I am left alone. So I bury my face in my hands, and I cry.

As the warm tears roll down my face, I see two ratty shoes come to a stop on the carpet, right in front of me. I look up, and see Theo towering above me, a remorseful grin on his face.

Before I can stop myself, I leap up and wrap him in an embrace.

At first he is rigid, unsure how to react, but he slowly returns the gesture.

"Thank you for being my friend," I garble, the tears messing up my words. He is the only person who never once judged me based on who I _am_; he's only ever judged me based on what I've _done_. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

"I can say the same," he murmurs, resting his chin on the top of my head. "I don't know what I'll do while you're gone."

He says that so nicely, almost as if he actually expects me to come back.

* * *

**Let me know what you think. I really appreciate your feedback!  
**


	8. District Six Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Liasyma Marlowe**

* * *

District Six: the land of transportation. What a quaint, lovely place.

"Ms. Marlowe," my attendant asks, her pudgy cat-like face scrunched up in confusion. "We need to return to the stage. The reapings will begin in only half of an hour, and you cannot be late!"

I keep shuffling along the wide cobblestone street, disregarding her warning. "My dear Catheria, how many times have you ever been to see District Six?"

"Well, none, ma'am, but-"

"Exactly!" I proclaim, holding up my anemic white fists. "I only get to come to this beautiful place once a year, and am going to enjoy this experience to the fullest! It's only a walk around the block, anyways. Calm down."

Catheria rolls her bright yellow eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

**Relly Jay, District Six Female**

* * *

The sun beats down mercilessly from the blue sky, and I can already feel a sunburn beginning on my shoulders. I adjust my wide-brimmed straw hat, re-tying the light pink bow, and let out a sigh. My, oh my. These flowers won't plant themselves!

I heft one of the heavy rose bushes, but I am unable to carry is very far, and the plastic pot slips from my hand and cracks on the ground.

"Dang it," I hiss.

Over by the front of the house, my mother rises from the ground, rubbing her mauve gloves together to dislodge the dirt that has caked onto the fabric.

"What is it, honey?" she calls. On any other normal weekday, she would be working at the hovercraft factory. But she gets today off because of the reapings.

"I cracked the plastic."

She walks over, and runs a gloved thumb across the side of the pot. "Don't worry about it, Relly. We don't need the container anymore, anyways."

Placing her foot on the plastic, she gives it a huge push, and the entire spindly rosebush goes spinning across the lawn, smashing down the grass and violently rattling the little white blossoms. A few snowy petals break off and float down to the ground, but when the plant finally comes to a stop, there doesn't seem to be any serious harm done.

"Alright Relly," my mother says, pulling a strand of dark blond hair out of her mouth and placing it behind her ear. The finger of her glove brushes against her cheek, leaving a light smudge of dirt behind on her pale skin, the tone that she and I both share. I've even been told that, except for my lighter hair, I'm a dead ringer for my mother.

She takes the plant by the stem, plants her foot on the plastic casing, then pulls the block of dirt out of the pot. "I'm going to need your help," she says. As she struggles to keep the rosebush steady, I guide the bundle of roots and soil over to the hole in the ground.

"You can let go," I tell her.

The plant hits the ground with a jolt, and my mother smiles with satisfaction. "Excellent." Squinting up at the sky, she pulls the gloves off of her hands. "You know what, Relly? We can wait until later to plant the rose bushes. You should go run along with your friends."

I feel my face brighten. "Really?"

She looks to me, a thin smile on her pale lips, and gives a single nod.

I laugh with excitement, quite pleased with my unexpected freedom. "Thank you, mom!"

Ripping the gloves off of my hands and tossing the wide-brimmed hat into the bushes, I sprint into our house, searching for my father. I find him in his office, presiding over a thick stack of papers, each one detailing an order from one of his customers. See, he's a clock maker. A pretty good one, too.

He inspects a tiny little mechanism underneath a magnifying glass, his lips pursed in concentration. When he leans slightly forward, his rectangular spectacles slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up into their proper position, slightly annoyed.

I run up to him and hug him from the side.

"Bye, dad," I say. "I'm going to go see my friends."

He looks to me, his curious brown eyes made larger by the lenses of his glasses. "I thought you were planting flowers with your mother?"

"She let me off the hook," I say, grinning.

My father shrugs lightheartedly. "Fine by me. Just be safe, alright?"

I nod hurriedly. "Of course!"

Chuckling, my father turns his attention back to his work. "Have fun, Relly."

"I will!" I cry, sprinting out of my house. "Bye mom!" I say, waving to her as I run across the yard and out onto the sidewalk.

"Bye, sweetie," she calls, waving back to me.

As my sprint slows to a fast skip, I think, _Nothing can squash my good mood today._ _Nothing at all._

* * *

**Alder Haynes, District Six Male**

* * *

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, and close my eyes. A sigh escapes through my nose, and I raise my arms in a yawn. I have been sitting here for what, three hours? I am so far beyond bored that I can literally feel my synapses dying off, one by one, like stars dying in the night sky.

It's not like I have anything else to do, though.

The young woman lying on the medical table lets out a low whimper. She's been here for three days, and is still wearing the same tattered gray dress that she had on when her distraught family carried her here. Her lips are cracked and chapped, red canyons of blood spread between white shelves of dead skin, and the blue veins contrast hideously against her sallow skin. Her sickness has smeared two purple dark spots underneath her bloodshot blue eyes, almost dark enough to rival her wavy, black hair. According to my parents, this woman waited three and a half months to get treatment for this unknown ailment, and before, when the symptoms were just starting to appear, she had excellent chances of survival. But because she waited so long to get treatment, my parents and I can do very little to save her now.

At least her sickness isn't contagious, because if it was, her entire family and anyone else who came into contact with her would be suffering, as well. And if she was contagious, I most certainly wouldn't risk sitting in the same room as her.

But, judging by how much her condition has deteriorated since her arrival, I give her less than a day to live.

If she valued her life, why would she wait to come to us? It makes no sense.

Her family is too poor to pay for treatment, but my family will pay for the treatment of those who cannot afford it. We don't really need the money because we're among the only physicians in all of District Six. We can afford to be altruistic.

So again I ask: why would she wait?

"You are a fool," I mutter, standing up from my seat. I don't think she hears me, though. And if she can, she doesn't have enough strength to respond.

As I pour myself a glass of water from the jug on the back table, I hear someone unlock the front door. Down the hallway, the barrier sweeps open to reveal my mother and father, both encumbered with bags of groceries and medical supplies. Every now and again they make a supply run, and every time they ask if I'd like to go with them, and I always refuse, because why bother with the outside world? The world doesn't care about me, and I don't care about the world.

"Alder, why don't you open the windows or something?" my mother chides, dropping her bags at the corner of the table. She walks over and throws the curtains back. "It's like a cave in here."

To be honest, I really couldn't care one way or the other. Darkness, light. They're both the same.

"And have you even brushed your hair?" she asks, walking over to me. She runs her bony hand through my dark blonde hair, her fingers seeming to catch on every single knot. "You do realize that you actually need to go out in public today, don't you?"

Oh, right. The reapings are today.

I push away from my mother, a sneer on my face. I don't like it when she touches me. She is such a busy body, and even though she thinks she knows me, she really knows nothing at all.

"Rachel," my father calls from the kitchen, "leave the boy alone."

At least he understands.

My mother frowns, but refrains from pestering me any further.

Since my parents are home, I don't need to look after the patient any longer, and I may as well go get ready. The Peacekeepers have a tendency to severely punish those who are late for the reapings, and I do not intend on being penalized for something as meaningless as a late arrival.

* * *

**Relly Jay**

* * *

"Tag," Keelie says, tapping me on the shoulder. "You're it!"

I flounce after her, my arm outstretched. We aren't really interested in playing tag, but it's something to occupy our time as we head to the town square.

We pass a group of boys, and with a little bit of resentment, I notice a lot of them watching Keelie, though she is oblivious to their attention. I look down at the ground and sigh.

Keelie has always been the "hot" one. I'm the cute one, but she's the one that guys want to date. And even though I love her like a sister, I do have to admit that I hate her a little bit. Okay, maybe "hate" is a strong word. It's more jealousy than anything. But still, I wish that, for once, I would be the one that boys notice.

"Hurry up, slowpoke," Keelie cries, waving her arm at me from the end of the street. How did she get there so fast? "The reapings start in ten minutes!"

Oh, jeez.

I set off at a sprint once again, my short, sleeveless blue dress fluttering against my legs, and take the turn a little too fast and almost slip on the gravelly surface. "Whoa," I say, holding my arms out for balance.

"Don't kill yourself," Keelie says, giving me a lighthearted slap on the back as she runs up alongside me. "Don't wanna show up to the reapings all bloody, do you?"

"Nope," I huff, pumping my arms and legs, desperately hoping to make it on time, because if I showed up late I would risk district-wide public embarrassment.

We make it with less than three minutes to spare. Huffing and puffing, I let the guy with the blood scanner prick my finger.

"Relly Jay, age fourteen?" he asks.

"Uh huh," I gasp, winded from the run.

He scans Keelie next. "Keelie Bennett, age fifteen?"

"Yup."

"Go," he says, waving us away.

Keelie and I hurry over to our respective places in the crowd just as the mayor commences his speech, detailing the glory of the Capitol and why the Hunger Games are a fit punishment for the Rebellion. But are they a fit punishment, really? I don't think so. I think they're evil.

The mayor throws his free arm up into the air. "And now I shall hand the spotlight to our beloved escort, Liasyma Marlowe!"

Nobody cheers for the withered woman as she steps forward to take the microphone. Our escort looks sick, as if she doesn't get enough food and sunlight. "Oh, thank you, dear."

Turning to the audience with an eerily wide smile, she says, "Well, District Six, let us hesitate no further. Females first!"

With spindly spider fingers, she reaches into the bowl and pulls out a single name. Two words fall away from her dark purple lips: "Relly Jay."

My entire mind grinds to a halt, but I feel myself step forward, as if my entire body is on autopilot. The ground passes under me, even though I don't consciously register my own footsteps. Before long, I find myself in front of our sickly escort, and up close, her skin is even more waxy and unappealing.

"Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games," she says with a wavering voice, her lips pulling back into a putrid, overly-purple grin.

I can't believe this.

_I am going to die, _I realize, the words ringing in my head with a cold finality.

* * *

**Alder Haynes**

* * *

Sauntering along the beaten roadway, I look up at the cloudless sky and wonder how long the reapings will last. I hope they don't take very long, because I can't stand to be around so many people for much longer than twenty minutes. Crowds make me nervous.

As I round the last street, I see a small brunette girl sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, rolling a couple of gutter pebbles between her thin fingers. Her unnerving black eyes are fixed upon me. Why is she looking at me like that? What is she plotting?

I quicken my pace and hurry past her, though out of my peripheral vision I can still see her looking at me. Even when she is behind me, I throw a glance over my shoulder, and she's still staring at me. Most of me couldn't care less what she's thinking about, but there is that one lingering thought in the back of my mind, that dark smear of paranoia on an otherwise gray page of indifference. Part of me wants to know what her little mind is thinking about behind those dark eyes, but the rest of me just wants to get the reapings over with. And in the end, my apathy wins.

The registrar takes a sample of my blood, confirms my identity, then sends me on my way.

Up on the stage, the tiny escort stands with her arms crossed, seemingly uncomfortable. She is so skinny that her figure closely resembles a skeleton wrapped in pale, flimsy skin. Perhaps it's just because she's old. Her peppermint colored hair has been styled into a puffy bob cut, though the volume of her hair only serves to make her cheeks appear more hollow, and her neck appear more twig-like. Our escort isn't exactly the picture of health.

On the back of the stage I see our two surviving mentors, both males. District Six has had three victors, but our first, a woman named Miriam who won the Sixteenth Hunger Games, died three years ago, leaving these two as the only remaining mentors. Brandt and Nyx, I believe they're called. But other than their names, I don't know much about them.

Finally, exactly when the clock strikes two, our mayor takes the spotlight, and gives his annual propaganda-laden Hunger Games spiel. I close my eyes and tune out, wishing that he would speed it up. I just want to go home.

Eventually, after what feels like an hour, the disturbingly thin escort eagerly takes center stage and gazes out across the audience. "Well, District Six, let us hesitate no further. Females first!"

She draws a paper and calls a name, Relly Jay, and a young blond girl steps forward from the fourteen-year-old section. Her face conveys no emotion, shell shocked by those two words. Two words, nine letters; yet it is a death sentence. And this girl knows it.

Ascending the steps blindly, she halts next to the escort, completely mute.

Liasyma ignores the unresponsive girl, and proceeds to draw the male name. "Alder Haynes!"

Oh. That's me.

I shrug, and break from the ranks of young boys, the rest of them relieved that their names weren't called, that they can go home and live out the rest of their pathetic lives, that they won't have to go die in the arena. Unlike them, I don't care. Death is the end result of life. My life isn't worth much, so why should my death be any different?

I mount the steps, and the escort's face falls when she sees my utter lack of facial expression. I assume that she's at least a little disappointed at having to deal with one tribute who's catatonic, and another who couldn't care less.

"And so, darling District Six," our escort says, linking my hand with Relly's, "I give you the male and female tributes who will represent you in the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!"

The audience claps for us, but I know that they only clap because they won't have to go into the arena. At least, not this year.

Casting a glance over to my district partner, I watch her fight to keep her face neutral. Her attempts fail, though, when a single tear trails down the side of her face and falls from her chin.

The crowd doesn't see the tear, though. No, no. They are too busy rejoicing, delighted that the Capitol granted them one more worthless year of life.

* * *

**Relly Jay**

* * *

The walls are covered in expensive paintings, and rows of silk tapestries hang from the ceiling, each one bearing the seal of the Capitol, and directly underneath is the much smaller seal of District Six. A chandelier hangs above my head, plated with gold and covered with hanging crystals. I don't think I've ever seen so much wealth in such a small place.

My mother and father sit on either side of me, sandwiching me in a sullen, devastated embrace. How could this have happened? Why am I the one sitting here?

On the left side of me, my father pulls something out of his pocket. "I was meaning to give this to you next month, for your birthday," he says, his voice wobbling with tears. He looks to me with bloodshot eyes. "But I think that an early birthday present is in order."

I hold out my hand, and he drops the object in the center of my palm. It is a little heart-shaped locket, plated with gold, and a tiny copper rose has been stamped on the front. I open the heart, and find a miniature picture of my family on the left side, and a small clock on the right. This must have taken my father weeks to make.

"Thank you, daddy," I whisper, tightening my fist and holding the necklace close to my chest.

As I lean my head against his shoulder, one of the Peacekeepers sticks his head in the door. "You have more visitors," he says, voice low. He steps out of the way, revealing both Keelie and Elijah.

I smile, happy that they came to say goodbye.

"Oh, Relly," Keelie says, tears streaming down her face, and she runs over and wraps her arms abound me. "This sucks! Of all the people, and they chose you, I just can't…!" She steps away from me, wiping her hands across her face. "I am so sorry, Relly."

"Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It's not your fault."

She waves her hand dismissively, but her tears cannot be held back, and despite her best efforts, she breaks down into sobs. In a way, I think it's kind of funny that she's crying more than I am. Maybe I'm just still in shock. Maybe my tears will come later.

Elijah touches my arm, and draws me into a hug. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he does the same. "I really wish they hadn't picked you," he murmurs. I can feel the vibration of the words running through his chest.

I push away from him, and give him a tiny smile. "I'm going to miss you, Elijah."

He gives me a kind of smile that I've never seen on his face before. "I'll miss you more." He looks down at his feet, and smirks. "See you in two weeks, right?"

Grinning, I reply, "Yep."

He looks to me, but this time I don't see any humor in his brown eyes. Now it's just sadness. "I'm going to hold you to that, Relly."

* * *

**Alder Haynes**

* * *

My parents sit in uncomfortable silence, and I know that they want me to speak, but I have nothing to say. And because I am a firm believer that silence says more than words, the last conversation I have with my parents will consist entirely of silence.

"Alder, is there anything you want to say…?" my mother asks desperately.

I keep staring at the ceiling, lips sealed. No, there is nothing I want to say.

My father lets out a sigh of exasperation. "You are going to the Capitol. And I hate to say it, Alder," he says, his voice catching on the last syllable, "but the possibility exists that you may not be coming home. Can't you at least say 'goodbye'?"

I roll my eyes, and sink against the couch. So many pointless questions. "Why do you care so much? If I say the word 'goodbye', it doesn't increase my chances of coming home. 'Goodbye' won't save me in the arena. 'Goodbye' won't make me better at handling weapons. And 'goodbye' won't heal the fatal wound that I am sure to receive. So, why say it?"

I'm not ever taking a token with me. What's the point, if I know that I'm not coming home?

A broken sob escapes from my mother. "Alder, how can you say that? Do you want to hurt us?"

"No, I don't want to hurt you," I deadpan. "I am genuinely curious."

Standing from her seat, my mother avoids my questioning gaze. "Because your father and I are only human. We want to know that you love us enough to at least give us closure before you go off and get killed in this Game."

Good to know she has so much faith in me. But I don't expect to come home, either. So I guess I can't blame her.

"Fine," I say. "Goodbye, mother. Goodbye, father."

My mother sighs, seemingly with relief. "Thank you, Alder," she says slowly. Even more slowly, she adds, "We will miss you while you're gone."

Well, then. They're going to be missing me for a long, long time.

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**

**Halfway through the reapings! *big sigh* Sorry this update took so long. I promise that the District Seven reapings will be posted sooner.**

**And Atmosphere has surpassed fifty reviews! I can't thank you enough, dear readers.  
**


	9. District Seven Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.  
**

* * *

**Skye Caraway, District Seven Escort**

* * *

Outside my window, the trees and the mountains fly by at a blinding pace. I'm only twenty-one, and this is the first time I've ever been outside of the Capitol, which is why I signed up to be an escort in the first place. So far, I think I made a good decision. This place is beautiful.

"Escort Caraway," the train attendant says, nervously leaning out of the doorway, "we've almost arrived."

I nod to her. "Thank you."

She gives me a weak smile, a _fearful_ smile, and quickly disappears. It seems that, to people outside of the Capitol, my love for the color black indicates that I gleefully sacrifice the blood of farm animals to some pagan god in my spare time. Which I don't, of course.

But, eh. Whatever. It's funnier if they think I do.

* * *

**Linden Cooper, District Seven Male**

* * *

Yellow light filters in through my drawn blinds, casting an antiquated glow across my entire room. Out in the living room my parents are speaking to each other in muffled tones, but their voices are too low to understand from halfway across the house. Every year, on reaping day, they withdraw from the world and hide out in our house, almost catatonic in their grief. They miss my sister.

She was reaped seven years ago, and... she didn't win.

I sit on my bed, cradling a small image of Daphne in my right hand. It's the only picture I have left of her.

She is my reason for volunteering. I must avenge her death.

I set the picture down on my nightstand, next to twelve dried daisies. They were Daphne's favorite flower, and each one represents a year of her life that she lost to the Hunger Games. She was only twelve when she was reaped.

But those daisies also represent the twelve servants that I will send to her through the Hunger Games, the twelve girls who will attend to her for all eternity. My sister will be a princess in the underworld.

Clenched in my left hand is Daphne's blue hair ribbon, now old and frayed, and it will act as my token. My motivation. My reason to kill.

I have trained for the last seven years. My regimen began on the day I watched my older sister's blood spill across the arena floor, at the hands of some blonde career bitch, her ugly mouth pulled back in a wild grin as she took the one thing I loved most in the world. But now, on this day, the time has come to avenge my beautiful sister. I will kill for the one who was killed.

This is all for Daphne.

As I walk through my house, I meticulously tie the ribbon around my left bicep, passing my parents without so much as a glance in their direction. They don't know of my plans, and I don't intend on telling them. They won't know until I volunteer.

I hang in the front doorway of my house, staring at the hazy outline of the mountains, resting on the horizon. After today, I may never see those mountains again. But I cannot linger on such things, because my duty is to avenge my sister, and nothing else matters so long as the job is done. In a nearby tree, a crow bobs up and down with an endless stream of squawks and screeches. I hop down the front steps and take in a lungful of fresh mountain air... something my sister will never do again.

This thought gives me a sudden burst of motivation, and I set off down the road, carefully avoiding any oblivious pedestrians, even though I would love nothing more than to run them over. But I cannot risk injuring myself on reaping day.

* * *

**Flavia Reeves, District Seven Female**

* * *

I drum my fingers against a pine tree, watching the Peacekeepers from afar. This is _my_ mountain, and I wish they'd leave. They don't know that I hunt here, and I intend to keep it that way, considering that hunting is an offense punishable by death. I like living, thank you very much.

The two men, dressed in their white uniforms and intimidating face masks, are blabbing away about some random thing, while I have to sit here, wasting my time, and not checking my traps. Hopefully I've snared a rabbit or two. I would go out searching for bird eggs or berries or some wild vegetables, but the reapings are today, and I have to get there before one thirty in the afternoon, in order to check-in on time. Last year I was late, and they fined my family for money that we didn't have. It took us two months to pay off the debt. I will not be making that mistake again.

Finally the two idiots leave, laughing and slapping each other on the back, and I sneak over to the traps, careful to keep out of the Peacekeepers' line of vision. They don't see me, thankfully.

I've set four traps over a two-hundred meter distance, and only the last one holds a rabbit. It's a small, brown ball of blood and fur - the trap closed around its chest rather than its neck, so it struggled a lot, ruining the pelt and potentially damaging the meat. I curse under my breath and reluctantly unhitch the rope, stuffing the rabbit into my bag alongside my dagger and the four dismantled traps. I pull the strap over my shoulder, then trek three and a half miles back to my house, avoiding any Peacekeepers on the off-chance they recognize the shape of a dead rabbit inside of my bag.

I cautiously tiptoe in the backdoor of my house, careful to not disturb my sleeping mother. This is the first day she's had off of work in three months, on account of the reapings, so I figure she might as well get some decent sleep. She lies on the floor in front of the fireplace, rolled up in an old, tattered blanket, but leaving the stump of her left wrist exposed. Her left hand had to be amputated after my father attacked her with a knife. It's better that he's gone.

Sybilla, my older sister, sits in the kitchen, staring out the window as she normally does, her lips twitching with silent words. I wish I knew what was going through her mind.

"Hello," I whisper, wrapping my arms around her neck in a brief hug. A faint smile ghosts across her thin lips, but she otherwise remains still as she always does, completely oblivious to my presence.

I set the bag down on the counter, preparing to cut up the rabbit, but when I catch sight of the sun's position, I sigh. There isn't enough time. I'll have to wait until after the reapings.

I look down at my outfit: baggy black pant, grey jacket, worn leather boots. It's not like I have anything better to wear, so this will have to do.

I silently escape my house, and set off down the dusty road towards the center of town. A knot of anxiety tugs at my chest, but I try to dismiss it. My name is written on exactly fourteen slips of paper, and that's nothing compared to some of the other kids, and anyways, there are thousands upon thousands of other names in that bowl. The likelihood of mine being drawn is next to zero.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

* * *

**Linden Cooper**

* * *

Eventually I reach the center of town, where they have set up the stage, along with the projector and the gray backdrop that functions as a screen, with the seal of the Capitol clearly visible alongside the seal of District Seven. Our two past victors stand next to the stage, one old man and one middle-aged woman, and neither of them look happy to be here. One of them will be my mentor. I spot someone else standing off to the side, dressed fully in black, their hands stuffed into their jacket pockets, and I assume that this person is our district escort. The last escort flipped out and killed herself during the Sixty-Third Hunger Games, after both tributes from District Seven were killed in the bloodbath. Hopefully this new one won't be so weak.

I am forced to wait in the registry line for ten minutes. With every passing second, my excitement ratchets up another notch, and by the time I reach the diminutive man who holds the list of names, I am ready to kill someone.

"Name?" he asks dreamily.

"Linden Cooper," I snap.

He lazily runs the pencil down the page, searching for me. After what seems like forever, he scribbles something on the paper, takes a sample of my blood to confirm my identity, and gives me the nod of approval.

I walk over to the seventeen-year-old section, and file myself into the ranks of nervous boys, though I am nervous for an entirely different reason. Unlike them, I _know_ that I will be going to the Capitol today.

Ten minutes later, the mayor walks up onto the stage, and a harsh calm falls across the entire audience. Nervous parents and family members fidget in the streets and behind the fences, while the eligible kids all hold their breath, terrified of being picked. Except for me, of course. I am the opposite of terrified.

Exactly when the town clock strikes two, Mayor Bloom, an older woman with a perpetually sour expression on her face, removes the microphone from the stand, and clears her throat. The second she opens her mouth, half of the audience falls asleep, and for the next fifteen minutes she drones on and on about the Capitol's benevolence, and their mercy, and whatever else the President told her to say. I have no love for the Capitol. I want what they have, and all of their ridiculous splendor.

Finally, the mayor finishes by saying, "And may I introduce our new escort, Skye Caraway."

The escort takes the microphone, gives a brief smile, and clears their throat. I honestly cannot tell whether or not the escort is male or female, and it's starting to piss me off. "Thank you, District Seven." Judging by their voice, it's a guy. But they _are_ from the capitol, so I cannot be sure. "Let's get this show on the road." He? reaches into the glass bowl, and withdraws one of the slips of paper. "For the male tribute, we have…"

I don't give him a chance to read the name out loud. "I volunteer!"

Skye lowers the slip of paper, and gives me a very strange look. Apparently he wasn't expecting any volunteers from an outer district. "Well, well. And may I ask your name?" he says, offering me the microphone as I tromp up the steps and onto the stage.

"Linden Cooper."

"And your reason for volunteering?"

"To avenge my older sister."

Skye pauses, seeming to evaluate me, before a spark of recognition registers on his too-pretty face. Maybe he remembers Daphne. His expression softens, and he looks out towards the audience. "Are there any other male volunteers?" Silence. "No? Then it's time to pick the female tribute."

* * *

**Flavia Reeves  
**

* * *

I register myself at the front table, then find my way to the sixteen-year-old section. Everyone is fidgety, pulling at their clothes, their eyes darting around the assembly of kids, searching for whoever will be reaped today. I search for Tony, my best friend, but I cannot spot his mop of blond hair anywhere.

At two O'clock, the mayor gives her annual reaping spiel, and I have to consciously keep my eyes from glazing over. Her voice is just so boring.

Then she introduces our new escort: a slender, pale-skinned prettyboy with black hair, black clothing, and a ton of eyeliner. At least, I think it's a guy. His gait and his voice tell me that he's male, but with his face… he could be a female supermodel. It's kinda creepy.

"Thank you, District Seven," he says, and calmly proceeds to draw a name for the male tribute. He's a lot less obnoxious than our last escort, I'll give him that.

But before the name can be read aloud, a tall, well-built guy in a plaid shirt steps forward from the seventeen-year-old section. "I volunteer!" His reason? To avenge his sister.

He tromps up on stage, and introduces himself as Linden Cooper.

Wait... I remember. Daphne Cooper. She was reaped seven years ago, at the age of twelve. The entire district mourned her death; we always hate it when a twelve-year-old dies. So, this guy is her brother?

The escort seems a little surprised to get a volunteer from District Seven, but he shrugs it off and draws a name from the female bowl. "Flavia Reeves." He carefully articulates each syllable, then looks out across the audience to find the owner of the name.

Two clawed hands wrap around my lungs, and I cannot breathe. What? He called _my_ name? No, no. That's not possible. _That's not possible._

The ground sinks underneath me, and the world tips sideways. Am I really here? Did that just happen?

Mechanically, I force myself to walk forwards, and I can feel everyone's eyes boring into me. The entire nation is watching me right now.

I ascend the steps, but everything is spinning, and I have to use the handrail to stabilize myself. The escort offers me a hand, but I refuse to take it. I cannot look weak next to this squishy Capitol idiot.

He pulls his hand back, eyebrow raised.

I ignore him, and walk over to the other tribute. I think his name is Linden.

I reach towards him, since it's customary for the male and female tributes to clasp hands, but he flinches away from me, a deep and hideous sneer carved into his face. What's his problem?

"May I present to you: Flavia Reeves, and Linden Cooper, the District Seven tributes for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" The escort gestures to us, and a brief smile crosses his face. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

I look out across the entire audience, full of sympathetic faces, but I don't want their pity. It takes all I have to keep from breaking down in front of everyone. This can't be happening.

* * *

**Linden Cooper**

* * *

My mother sobs next to me. I cannot stand to hear her cry, but this was necessary. Vengeance is the only way to ever make myself whole again. I have a destiny to fulfill.

"Why didn't you tell us you were planning to volunteer?" my father asks, his angular face unreadable.

"Because I knew you'd try to stop me."

Trembling, my mother places her hand on my shoulder, a strand of black hair hanging over her dark eyes, her husky face streaked with tears. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

Why can't they see this as a good thing? "I've been training for this: running, using axes, working on my stealth. I am ready for the Hunger Games." My words don't seem to reassure them.

My mother starts up another round of sobs, and my father reaches over to comfort her. "We've already lost one baby to these games," she wails, "why do we have to lose another? Linden, why?!"

"Because I will not die. I am the one who will bring death to the hypocrites and whores. I will avenge Daphne."

Her tears continue to fall, though, and my father responds by holding her more closely, almost to the point of desperation. Why aren't they proud?

Soon, things will be right again.

* * *

**Flavia Reeves**

* * *

"It will be okay," my mother reassures me, but when I look into her brown eyes, all I see is remorse, as if she's already begun to mourn me.

I twiddle my thumbs, wishing that I could just disappear into this couch. I look around the room, and though the Justice Building is beautiful, it isn't nearly so appealing from where I'm sitting.

I bury my face in my hands, and bite my tongue to keep from sobbing.

"I will always love you," she murmurs, running her hand through my hair.

How will my mother and my sister survive while I'm gone? They can't hunt. They can't work. My mother is a cripple, and my sister is… well, my sister. She doesn't exactly have a secure connection to reality, at least not anymore. "I just don't want to abandon you," I struggle to say. "I'm afraid of what will happen to you if I leave."

A familiar voice says, "I will take care of them."

I look up and see Tony standing in the entrance, lightly rapping his knuckles against the wooden door frame. In spite of my anxiety, his presence brings me a smile. He is the only member of the male gender who has ever shown me kindness, or proven that he has any human decency whatsoever. I like to think of him as a friend.

"I came to say goodbye," he says, and I notice tears brimming at the corners of his blue eyes. They don't fall, though. "And to wish you luck."

I rise from my seat and throw my arms around his neck, giving him a huge bear hug, and he is quick to return to gesture. We say nothing else, because nothing needs to be said.

Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn to see Sybilla, her dark circles prominent even against her tan skin, and in her hand I see the small wooden horse that she gave me for my tenth birthday.

"I want you to use this for your token," she says, her voice airy and weak from disuse. "I want you to come home."

With trembling hands I take the little figurine, and clutch it close to my chest. Sybilla just spoke more words to me in the past ten seconds than she has in the past two years. I feel the tears pressing at the edges of my eyes, forcing me to wipe them away, and I nod quickly, unable to speak.

The Peacekeeper then appears in the doorway, standing awkwardly. "It's time to leave, Miss Flavia."

I hastily herd my mother and my sister and Tony into a group hug, possibly for the last time. My tears fall from my face to the floor, but I make no attempt to stop them. "I love you all so much more than I can ever say."

This is the memory I want to have of my home.

* * *

**So, what do you guys think?**


	10. District Eight Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Holly Thorne, District Eight Escort**

* * *

I stare at my clipboard with disdain, flipping through the pages and pages of complete and utter nonsense. Which incompetent fool designed these lights? And who decided to put the cameras on stage _left_? They obviously belong on stage _right_.

I plaster a fake smile on my face, and place my hand on the shoulder of one of the Peacekeepers. "Excuse me," I say, keeping my voice sickeningly sweet, "Would you be so kind as to put the cameras in their proper place?"

He opens his mouth to ask a question, but I hold my index finger on his lips to silence him. "Ah ah! Just do it, Peacekeeper."

A beat of silence passes. He gives me a nervous nod, and runs off to fix the mistake.

Oh, District Eight. Fools, all of them.

* * *

**Erizelda Morrison, District Eight Female**

* * *

Sunlight pours in through the curtains.

I pull my arms up above my head and let out a yawn, stretching my legs underneath the bed sheets. What time is it?

"Morning, beautiful," Damian murmurs beside me, resting his hand on my waist. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

"Morning, handsome," I reply, turning to face him. Dark hair, square jaw, lightly tanned, strong features, pretty eyes. I could do worse. But I've already been with him for a two and a half weeks, and I am quickly growing tired of his presence. In fact, I don't think I've ever stayed with a guy for this long. I mean, Damian _is_ pretty hot. But still.

He kisses the curve of my neck, right underneath my jaw. "Sleep well?"

I stare at the wall, twirling a piece of dark, honey-brown hair around my finger. "Yeah, I slept fine." No, I did not sleep fine. I hate the reapings, and my anxiety barely let me sleep for three hours. But I don't tell him this. "How 'bout you, babe?"

He rolls out from under the sheet, straining the fabric against me, and I see his shadow on the opposite wall, a black silhouette surrounded by golden sunlight. "I slept alright." On the wall, I see his shadow struggle to put on a pair of underwear, followed by a pair of jeans. "Hey, are you sure your parents are okay with you spending the night at my place?"

I mumble in response, but I don't really give him a coherent answer. Isn't that the kind of question you ask beforehand? I guess hindsight is 20/20. And anyways, I don't care what my parents have to say. They can take their over-controlling dictatorship and shove it somewhere unpleasant. The only person who's approval I really care about is my older brother, Xavier, and even though he disapproves of my… nighttime activities, I know that he'll love me no matter what I do. So really, I don't care if anyone is okay with me spending the night. I am my own woman. I make my own decisions.

Pushing the sheets back, I lie in bed for another moment or two, before slipping off the mattress and picking up my clothes, which I left on the footboard last night. Huh. I seem to have lost an article of clothing.

"Damian, have you seen my sock?"

He wrestles a gray shirt over his head, then looks to me, his black hair all puffed up and messy. "What? No, I haven't seen your sock."

Shaking my head, I crouch down and look under the bed and, lo and behold, there's my sock.

"Hey, Zelda," Damian asks, taking his black beanie out of his wardrobe. He only wears it so he can keep from brushing his hair, being the lazy ass he is. "What do you want to do today? After the reapings, I mean."

Hell if I know. Like I have time to plan my entire day out. "I don't know, babe. What do you want to do?"

He gives me a knowing smile. "I wanted to go to the lake today, if that's alright with you? You know, go for a swim, do a little sunbathing, watch the ducks."

That actually sounds kind of nice. "I don't see why not. How 'bout a picnic?"

Grinning, he says, "I'd like that. I'll get the food ready while you're gone." Damian is nineteen, lucky bastard. He doesn't have to attend the reapings anymore.

"Sounds like a plan." I pick up the silky blue ribbon off of the nightstand and use it to tie my hair up in a ponytail. The ribbon actually belongs to my brother's fiancé, Katarina, but she won't miss it. And even if she does miss it, I don't care. I'm keeping it.

* * *

**Wade Odinshoot, District Eight Male**

* * *

In the upper corner of my window hangs a delicate spider web, covered in delicate drops of dew leftover from the morning fog. The water refracts the light, splitting it into thousands of tiny rainbows. The net of silk represents hours and hours of the spider's work. But even though I search, the homemaker is nowhere to be found.

"Wade," a soft voice calls to me. I turn around, and see Kit, our red-haired maid, standing in the doorway. "It's time for breakfast, hun."

I nod to her. "Thank you, Kit."

She bustles off, and I push myself up from the windowsill. I'm not actually hungry, but I figure that I might as well make Kit happy and eat the food she has prepared.

As I walk out of my room, I cast a glance down the hallway. The door of my sister's room stands ajar, and inside I can see her skeletal frame strewn across the bed, high out of her mind, the morphling searing through her veins and eating away at the pitiful remainder of her sanity. But, as much as I wish it weren't true, I know that she dreams of the day when the drugs to pull her down into the endless shadows, because she doesn't want to live with her memories anymore.

Seven years ago, she won the Fifty-Seventh Hunger Games at the age of eighteen. To ensure her triumphant return, Vibia was forced to kill two kids, two _children_, and when she came back home, I knew that she would never be the same again.

But it didn't end there, oh, no. Even though she was changed, Vibia still retained the stubborn streak that she inherited from my father. And when the Capitol demanded that she sell her body to the highest bidder, she adamantly refused. After all, dignity was the only thing Vibia had left.

And so, President Snow killed my grandmother.

Then my father.

And then my mother.

Even so, Vibia stood strong and refused.

But when they came for Wren, my twin sister, Vibia finally cracked. She begged them to stop, to spare my sister and me, and within a week she was whisked off to the Capitol. With her black hair, light green eyes, and porcelain skin, she - her body - was in very high demand.

When Vibia returned home after her first "tour" of the Capitol, the look in her eyes… it wasn't dejection, or anger, or agony. It was worse than all of those things combined.

In her eyes I found emptiness.

All that remained of my sister was a hopeless creature, praying for everything to end but lacking the strength to outright kill herself.

I know this because she told me so the night she came back.

_I want to die._

After everything she'd been through, the Capitol had finally found a way to break her. The morphling followed soon after.

I haven't truly seen Vibia in six and a half years.

Tromping down the stairs, I skip the final four and crash down onto the floor. The smells of scrambled eggs and French toast and syrup assault me, such luxury foods only available to me because my older sister is a victor. Actually, this entire house is the product of my sister's victory. Our spot in the Victor's Village, the food, the drapes, the mattresses, the polished tables, the space, the outdoor flower garden… even Kit.

Truth be told, I would trade it all in a heartbeat if it meant getting my mother back, and my father and my grandmother. But most of all Vibia.

She's suffered the most.

I just want everything to go back to the way it used to be.

* * *

**Erizelda Morrison**

* * *

I feel their eyes following me, their lips contorting into either jealous sneers or lustful smirks, their hands hiding their faces as their tongues spread vicious rumors about me. At this point I honestly couldn't care less whether or not the rumors are true. Their words have battered me for so long that my skin is tough with invisible scars, and now, thankfully, their cruelty can no longer reach me. But the drawback is that, through my thick skin, I can no longer feel the soft caress of a compliment. I know that I'm pretty; I've been told since before I can remember. But am I anything else? Is there a person underneath this beautiful, scarred skin?

I'm not so sure anymore.

On either side of the walkway, the gargantuan textile factories stretch for miles, each one pumping out a different type of fabric, rainbows and rainbows of expensive cloth that no District Eight resident could ever hope to afford. The factories have been here for so long that some are nearly covered in deep green ivy, planted long before the Rebellion and allowed to grow in the ensuing decades. I like the ivy. It makes everything a little less ugly.

I reach the village square, where the registrar takes a sample of my blood, then waves me along.

I find my spot among the seventeen-year-olds, and one of the girls next to me gives me a disapproving glare. As if this goody-goody-two-shoes has any right to judge me. Hypocrite.

Looking around the crowd, I spy a dark-haired figure standing on the periphery of the village square, and a cold fist tightens around my heart. The man sends me a shark-toothed grin, and I immediately turn away.

Suddenly I am thirteen years old, once again trapped in a world of dry leaves and dusty earth and sour breath and inescapable fear, and the dark-haired man is hurting me in a way that no human should ever heave to bear, violently stripping me of the innocence that I once held so dear.

I blink, and bring myself back to the present. It isn't worth lingering on those memories.

But I suppose that, for better or for worse, when it's brought down to brass tacks and nails, the dark-haired man is the genesis of present-day Erizelda. Whoever Erizelda Morrison could have been before that day - a valued doctor, a beloved teacher, a lowly seamstress - died in a brilliant, agonizing storm of judgment and rumors spread by the cruel idiots who couldn't tell the difference between a manipulative slut who was satisfied with what she had instigated, and a terrified child who was too afraid to speak out against her assailant.

Now, instead of a doctor or a teacher or a seamstress, I am just a beautiful scar.

And that is all I will ever be.

Up on the stage, the Mayor finishes his speech and hands the microphone off to our escort.

"Hello, my lovelies," she says, stretching the last 's' as if she were a snake. "My name is Holly Thorne, and I have been given the honor of selecting District Eight's tributes this year. So, without further ado," she says, dipping her light pink hand into the bowl of death, and wraps her perfectly manicured fingers around one of the names. She flips it open with one hand. "Our lovely lady shall be - Erizelda Morrison!"

Oh, no.

Everything comes to a grinding halt. My world, it is here. I am here. And she just called my name.

And without a thought I am sauntering up to the stage, swaying my hips and smiling seductively, waving and winking at the cameras because I know that's what the Capitol wants to see. Someone wolf-whistles from the back of the crowd, and I know that I'm doing my job correctly.

Holly claps for me. "It is so refreshing to see such an enthusiastic tribute, especially from District Eight." She turns back out to the audience, her long, jet-black hair swaying with the movement. "Now, time to choose this lovely lady's companion!"

* * *

**Wade Odinshoot**

* * *

Wren giggles beside me, and I lightheartedly punch her arm. "Don't talk like that."

"But it's true," she says, and edge of laughter still in her words. "Kit looks like a tomato."

I roll my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, mostly because I know that she's right. I just don't want to disrespect Kit like that. I mean, she is our de facto parent for the foreseeable future. And children aren't supposed to disrespect their parents.

Beside me, my friend Ostro lets out a smirk. "I have to say, you have a point, Wren."

I let my jaw drop in mock-exasperation and give Ostro a disappointed look. "Don't encourage her. She's bad enough as it is."

Wren crossed her arms and indignantly flips her light brown hair, which is almost the same color as my own. "Oh, thanks, Wade."

"Any time."

We stand in line for a few minutes while the lady samples our blood, then Wren leaves us to go stand in the girl's section while Ostro and I walk over to the fifteen-year-old boy's section.

I fiddle with the edge of my dark blue shirt, wishing that I didn't have to be here. I am perfectly aware that the relatives of victors tend to get reaped far more often than what the statistics would tell us. The game is rigged.

Mayor Muller spends about twenty minutes reciting his speech and reading the Treaty of Treason, then steps back and hands the microphone to our escort, a persnickety woman named Holly Thorne. This year, she has dyed her skin a light rosy pink, but the color contrasts strangely with her long, perfectly straight, raven-black hair.

Our escort waves to the audience, then draws the name of the girl who will be going to the Capitol.

Please, don't let it be Wren.

"Erizelda Morrison!"

I breathe a sigh of relief, because my sister is safe. But Erizelda Morrison… that name sounds familiar.

A very pretty girl breaks from the ranks and walks up to the stage, waving her slender hands at the audience, and when someone behind me wolf-whistles at her, she turns to wink at him, drawing further whistles and hoots from the audience. She ascends the steps with the help of a masked Peacekeeper, then takes her place next to the escort and flips her hair behind her shoulder.

Holly seems happy to get such a lively tribute. "Now, time to choose this lovely lady's companion!"

She reaches into the bowl, and withdraws a slip of paper. I close my eyes, hoping, _praying_ that she doesn't choose me.

Two words fall from her mouth. "Wade Odinshoot!"

The air catches in my throat, and the entire world closes in around me. I force myself to take a step forward, fighting to keep my face blank, because I don't trust myself to show any emotion. Sponsors don't give money to sniveling little fifteen-year-olds, so I force myself to appear strong. And if not strong, then at least unafraid.

I walk up onto the stage and look at the escort. Her lips curl back in a grin, but there's something underneath her smile that closely resembles pity, or disgust. Not entirely sure how to react, I give her a small smile in return.

Holly turns back out to the audience and raises her slender arm. "District Eight, may I present to you: Erizelda Morrison and Wade Odinshoot, your tributes for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" Turning back to us, she adds, "And may the odds be _ever_ in you favor!"

* * *

**Erizelda Morrison**

* * *

I rest my elbows on my knees and stare at the richly decorated wall.

Xavier paces the room, not entirely sure what to do. He looks out of the window, then walks back to me. "I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go, either, Xavier. But I have to."

He holds up his arms in disbelief, but as he is about to say something else, a Peacekeeper steps in from the hallway and looks to my older brother. "Five minutes are up. You'll have to leave, Mr. Morrison."

My brother looks at him in disbelief, and for a second he looks as if he'll punch the guy. But, wonder of wonders, my brother complies.

"Goodbye, Zelda," he says with a wavering voice. He stands by the doorway, and I kind of wish he'd give me a hug. But my brother has never been a touchy-feely person, and instead chooses to leave me with a simple spoken goodbye.

This leaves me alone with Damian, who sits beside me, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. "So, I guess we won't be able to go to the lake today."

I don't respond.

He circles around and kneels in front of me, folding his large, warm hands over mine. "Zelda, I am honestly speechless. I don't know what to say, except that I love you, and I have faith in you, and I really do expect you to come home."

Looking to him, I pull my hands back and give him a half-hearted smile. "Damian?"

"Yes?"

"I'm breaking up with you."

Complete and utter surprise is the only expression he can manage. "What…?"

"I'm breaking up with you." I lean back in the chair and cross my legs. "I'm going to the Capitol, where the men are all attractive and rich. As much as I like you, I can do _so_ much better."

Standing up, he looks down at the ground, jaw clenched. "Well, Zelda." He brings his icy blue gaze to meet mine. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

He crosses the room, opens the door, then pauses. Looking back to me, his face falls into a mask of dejection, and he simply says, "I hope you win, Zelda. I really do."

And then he closes the door, leaving me to my thoughts.

With a sigh, I look down at my hands. I don't hate him. I just… can do better.

Right?

* * *

**Wade Odinshoot**

* * *

Wren sobs into my shoulder, and I pet her hair, shushing her, trying to get her to calm down.

It's ironic that my sister is crying more than I am. I mean, she wasn't reaped. I was.

"You can't leave!" she cries, her words muffled by my shirt. "You can't!"

But I can. And I will, because I have to. The Capitol will drag me by the hair, if necessary. That's what they did to Vibia.

Vibia isn't here. She's still back at home, shooting herself full of morphling. Even though I expected this from her, I still would have preferred that she showed up, at least to say goodbye. This may be the last chance I have to see her.

No. I can't think like that. I will win. And I will come home, because Wren needs me, and I can't abandon her. Not now. Not after we've lost so much.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Wade," Ostro says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

"So am I," I whisper, my words weaker than I intended. "But I'll be back."

Kit stands next to me, her hazel eyes glistening with tears, pale arms crossed over her round belly. "Oh, Wren." Her lower lip trembles, and she brings her hands up to the sides of her face in anguish. "Oh, my dear boy! How could they take you away like this!"

She rushes over and wraps me up in a hug, and Ostro joins in, burying me three people deep in a group hug. I let out an involuntary laugh, and they all respond by hugging me tighter.

The Peacekeeper then knocks on the door, and steps into the room. "Time to go, Odinshoot."

My face falls. I have to go.

And as much as I need to come back, the possibility exists that this may be the last time I see District Eight.

* * *

**Tell me what you thought. Don't hesitate to PM me if I portrayed your tributes incorrectly. **


	11. District Nine Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Eris Vitale, District Nine Escort**

* * *

"Hum de dum," I mumble, sprawled out on the train couch, watching as the golden fields whiz by the low-set windows. "District Nine is so flat!"

No one else is around to hear me, but that is alright. I'm happy to talk all by myself.

I inspect a strand of my own hair, tracing the alternating blue and green streaks with a golden fingernail, then toss my hair back over my head and rest my chin on my elbows. This ride will take _forever_.

Then I remember that we have a tray of bon bons sitting on the silver table, and I leap up from the plush cushions with a squeal of delight. Unfortunately, my pink boots knock over the pitcher of grape-pear-cranberry-blueberry punch, and the purplish-red liquid spills over the creamy white carpet like a big, nasty bruise.

"Oops."

I clap my hands, and a tiny little Avox girl comes running in, her dark brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. Ugh, what an ugly thing. So bland and boring.

"Clean it up," I say, pointing to the spilled juice.

The girl's eyes go wide, but she nods slowly, and takes a ratty towel out of her apron with a dejected sigh.

I sit back down on the couch, having forgotten all about the bon bons, and smile to myself.

It's good to be queen.

* * *

**Glen Ackerman, District Nine Male**

* * *

The blade slices through the tall stalks of wheat, and I take the pointy grains and dump them into the bag tied around my waist.

I hate my job, having to tromp around the fields all day. It's so boring. But I'm glad that I can provide for my family. At least it makes me useful.

Looking at the scythe in my hands, I narrow my eyes. Maybe it doesn't have to be so boring. Suddenly, I am a warrior in an epic battle, fighting off the Evil Overlord's minions. I swing the blade around, cutting through the imaginary evil, forcing them back into the hell that they crawled out of.

"HI-YA!" I shout, bringing the scythe down on the head of another imaginary goon, burying the silver tooth of metal into the dirt. I am a champion!

The guy in front of me, I think his name is Henry, jumps back in surprise. "For God's sake, Glen! Watch where you swing that thing!"

I yank the blade out of the dirt and lean against the wooden pole. "That's not what your mom said last night."

His face goes blank, and for a moment I can't really tell what he's thinking. "Really, Glen? That's the best you can think of? That doesn't even… that's not even funny."

Grinning, I reply, "It's hilarious, and you know it."

"'Your mom' jokes haven't been funny since the pyramids were built."

My jaw drops with amazement. "The ancient Egyptians told 'your mom' jokes?"

Henry shrugs, seemingly annoyed. "I have no idea," he says, his voice jumping an octave. "Maybe. I was trying to make a real joke. You know, like your joke." He places air-quotes around the word 'joke'. "Only better."

I take a deep breath and smile, because I already have a comeback. "Oh. Well, you know who else isn't funny?"

Henry's brown eyes widen and he opens his mouth to respond. "Don't say-"

"Your mom."

Throwing his head back, Henry groans and turns away from me. "Why do I even bother? You're not worth taking to."

"Say what you want, Henry," I say, holding my arms out wide. "I am amazing. Some day, you will acknowledge my awesome." I walk up real close to him and stick my face right in front of his face, breathing his air. "And that day will be glorious."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he replies, "My name is Laurence. Not Henry. We have worked together for two months. How do you not remember this?"

I think for a moment. Oh. I guess his name really is Lawrence. "Well, you look like a Henry."

He looks over at me doubtfully, his mouth turned down into a frown. "That's not what my mom said when I was born."

Aw, man. "No, it doesn't work like that. You aren't supposed to talk about your own mom. And 'Your mom' jokes aren't supposed to make sense."

Throwing his arms out wide, Henry gives me a confused glare. "What are you talking about? That's the whole point of a joke! It makes sense in the end, and that's what makes it funny!"

"Not the kind of jokes that I like."

Henry picks up his scythe with a flick of his wrist, rolls his eyes at me, then turns and walks away. "That's because you're an idiot."

* * *

**Pagnotta Millet, District Nine Female**

* * *

I sit quietly at the breakfast table as daddy talks at length about some political scandal that has rocked District Nine's hierarchy. Not much of what he says makes any sense at all, but I pretend to know what he's talking about, and nod every now and then to let him think that I'm still listening even though I'm not.

"And Lieutenant Mayor Krieger called an emergency meeting, which all of the officials and the Head Peacekeeper were required to attend. They mainly spoke about how the price of grain will affect not only the price of bread, but also the price of cattle and pigs, because the farmers in District Ten have to compensate for the greater expense incurred from the exorbitantly priced grains by charging more for the beef. Or, rather, the Capitol has to pay the farmers more for the beef." He turns to me, his hands folded in that way that I hate. "So, Pagnotta, that is why the Capitol hates bad weather in District Nine. Our industry affects all of Panem, and when our crops are damaged, all of our countrymen suffer in turn."

I nod slowly, and looks down at my plate of oatmeal in feigned contemplation. My father is always talking about these irrelevant things. What does the rest of Panem matter to me?

Looking at his watch, my father sighs and stands up from the table. He grabs his big dark jacket off of the back of his chair and slings it over his shoulder. Waling over to my mother, he smiles at her and then kisses her on the cheek.

"I have to go see the boys," he says, and my mother rolls her eyes. "Really, Zia. This meeting is absolutely necessary. I am on the verge of a breakthrough." He winks at me, then leaves the kitchen.

The front door slams shut with a bang, and my mother simply shakes her head. "When will he learn to shut the door properly?"

She looks at me appraisingly, her green eyes pausing on my hair, and she waves me over. Taking my shoulders, she spins me around and sets to work on braiding my long, wavy hair. "I just love your hair, Notty," she murmurs, and I feel a tug on my scalp. "It looks just like gold."

She tightens the braid, then wraps a hair band around the bottom. "There you go, honey," she says, kissing me on the top of the head. "You're all set."

I turn around and hug her. "Thanks, mom."

"You're welcome, dear." Patting my back, she ushers me to the door. "Be back before dark. Be sure to avoid the… unsavory types. You know what I mean, dear." As I open the door, she hurriedly adds, "And don't lick any windows! You don't know what kind of germs are lurking on the surface. And the same goes for the sidewalk!"

I shut the door completely and sigh. When have I ever licked a window? Or the sidewalk? Sure, the weird neighbor kid does stuff like that, but I would never be so dense. I rarely even go outside; I only left the house today because of the reapings.

High above, thick gray clouds roll across the sky, and even I can tell that the heaviness in the air gives hint to a future storm. What a terrible day to have to stand outside in a crowd.

I don't want to get rained on.

* * *

**Glen Ackerman**

* * *

Skipping along the gravel road, I sing a bright tune to myself, but I don't entirely remember how the song goes so I make up my own words.

"I am a sexy beast, I am a sexy beast, the sexiest in the East, and if you don't agree, with me, that I am sexy, then you're dumb." I jump up on the last word, to place emphasis on how dumb the deniers really are.

As I pass a couple of pretty girls, I snap my fingers, pointing to them and giving them my best superstar smile. They both burst out into hysterics, and I walk on triumphantly, happy to have gotten a laugh out of them. Surely they appreciate my unbridled awesomeness, unlike that jerk Henry. Maybe someday he will see the light, and then he will understand just how great I am, and how very blessed he is to even know me, and how all of the ladies swoon over me and are just too shy to admit it to my face.

The lady at the registration table takes my hand in a single fluid motion and jams the needle into my index finger. I hate needles. The little green light confirms my identity, so the lady waves me along.

I skip to my spot in the crowd and plant myself between two chattering little boys, who both give me juvenile glares and cross their arms in anger. Oh, please. They should be glad that I'm even gracing them with my presence.

Next to the stage, I see District Nine's two mentors milling around, kicking at the dirt and staring out expectantly at the crowd. Hale and Quinn are the only two victors that we've ever had, and they both won within the last twenty years. Other than that, though, I really don't know that much about them.

Now, as for our escort… she's just weird, with her long, straight, green and blue hair, super tan skin, bright pink go-go boots and a plastic blue dress to match her shoes. I don't really get how she's supposed to be fashionable, but eh, whatever. It's not my problem.

The mayor gives his speech, ha ha, blah blah, Treaty of Treason, let's just get this over with so I can go find some pretty girls to hang around.

Then comes the escort, who introduces herself as Eris, and tells us how she just loves District Nine's horizontal tendencies, whatever that means. And then she waves at the cameras, talking about how we all have so much potential as tributes.

Heck yeah, we do. Have they even seen my face? I'm gorgeous.

"So, ladies and gentlemen, do you want to see who you'll be rooting for this year?" she asks, her bright pink lipstick contrasting weirdly with her white teeth.

Even though no one answers, she giddily dips her hand in the bowl, and withdraws a slip of paper. "Drum roll please!"

Someone behind the stage actually starts banging on a drum, much to Eris's delight, and she reads off the name with an almost obsessive vigor. "Glen Ackerman!"

Oh, hey! That's me!

I break from the crowd and strut on stage, waving at the crowd and smiling at the cameras. So I'll be going to the Capitol, no skin off my nose. I'm definitely going to win and come home victorious. I mean, really? How can I not win. I'm just amazing. And perfect. And _awesome_.

This whole Hunger Games thing will be a piece of cake.

* * *

**Pagnotta Millet**

* * *

I meet up with Rye at the end of the block, and together we set off towards the town square. Honestly, I have no idea why they force us to go do this every year. It's pointless, really.

"Do you think it will rain today?" Rye asks, looking up at the clouds.

I shrug. "It's not something I look forward to, so I hope not."

We walk through the streets of our town, passing by lots of people, almost all of them headed towards the same place we are. No one really takes notice of us, but I prefer it that way. Hanging in the background lets me get what I want, because no one really cares about the mild-mannered girl that they've never met before. They won't deny me what I want.

At the edge of the reaping square, there stands an old, gnarled tree that died a long, long time ago, though I don't exactly know what from. Sitting among the bare, twisting branches is a single crow, and it looks out across the crowd, bobbing up and down with grating cries, its black wings slightly splayed. Then it jumps out of the tree and flies around the town square and out of view.

"Check-in please," one of the registrars asks, and I distractedly offer them my small, slender hand. I've never liked crows all that much.

The prick is sharp and harsh, and I let out a yelp, pulling my fingers away from the needle. The lady rolls her eyes, but nonetheless, she releases me, and after saying goodbye to Rye I hurry off to my spot in the crowd.

Gosh, I hope they get this done fast.

But as soon as Mayor Smith starts his monologue, I know that I will be standing here forever. He just thinks he is so funny, when in reality, all of us groan at every single one of his off-color jokes and plain rude comments. He is the mayor. Isn't he supposed to be dignified in manner as well as speech? At least, that's what mother tells me. Mayors are supposed to be good.

Eris Vitale, our ridiculously colorful escort, then proceeds to draw the name for our male tribute, and a goofy-looking guy walks up to the stage, his smile so wide that I genuinely fear his face will rip in half. Of all things, he actually looks happy to be going into the arena. What a fool.

I sigh quietly and look down at the ground while Eris hurriedly picks the female tribute.

"And this year, our lovely lady will be: Pagnotta Millet!"

My eyes widen and I look up at the stage, where the boy is still waving at the cameras, and the escort is searching the crowd for the face of the female tribute. _My _face.

Something must be wrong. The universe must have hiccupped. I can't be the female tribute! There must be another Pagnotta Millet in the crowd. There must be.

Whispers run through the throngs of people, and everyone takes a step away from me, their eyes full of pity because they feel bad for me, but also relief because they weren't called. No, no! I'm not the right Pagnotta Millet! There's been a terrible mistake!

Two Peacekeepers elbow their way through the crowd, and one of them wraps a black gloved hand around my elbow. "Ms. Millet," he says quietly, carefully averting his dark brown eyes, "I need you to come with me."

no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no

The two Peacekeepers lead me to the stage and leave me beside the escort.

She claps her hands giddily, and cries, "District Nine, I give you: Glen Ackerman and Pagnotta Millet, your representatives in the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!"

Clasping our hands together, she flashes a huge smile, and Glen drags both of our arms into the air as if he is celebrating some victory.

This is all a joke. Right?

This isn't real.

* * *

**Glen Ackerman**

* * *

My mother sits quietly next to me, holding my hand in hers, and I really don't know why she's so upset. I mean, it's not like I'm going away forever.

I pat her head gently. "I'll be back in two weeks, mom. You don't need to look so sad."

She looks at me, but I can't really tell what emotion is hiding behind her eyes. It almost looks like pity, but I know that she doesn't pity me. After all, I'm going to be a victor. And victors get cool stuff and pretty girls and big houses and lots of cheering crowds. Not to mention, I get to spend time in the Capitol, which is pretty much the coolest place on Earth, because there's lots of good food and electronics and excitement and hovercraft and sexy women. Yeah, I think I'm going to have fun.

Nick and Ben, my two younger brothers, both lean against the opposite wall, looking around the Justice Building with wonder, obviously impressed by the immense amount of wealth that has been poured into this room alone. I wonder where Alexandra, my older sister, is right now. I mean, sure I'm coming home, but I would still prefer her to say goodbye.

"You know, when I win, we'll be able to have a house that looks just like the Justice Building."

My mother's hand tightens around mine, and she offers me a small smile. "You're nothing if not optimistic, Glen. And I admire that about you. But," she says, placing a strand of wavy hair behind her ear, "you need to look at this realistically. You can't just go in all willy-nilly, expecting to win without putting in any effort. You are going to be challenged, and…" Her voice catches, and she turns away from me.

"You'll need to fight for your victory," my father finishes. "Just don't go in expecting an easy victory." He slaps me on the back, and gives me a small smile. "I think you'll so great, son. You just have to be prepared for anything."

I nod, smiling. Why are they both so sad? "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

And when I get home, we'll be rich, and all of the ladies will swoon over me. Even more than they did before.

* * *

**Pagnotta Millet**

* * *

"No! This has to be wrong!" I scream, clutching my tiny teddy bear token close to my chest. He has green eyes, just like me, and his fur is the same golden color as my hair. I suppose he's kind of like a security blanket, but mother tells me that that is perfectly alright. I am only fourteen, after all.

With tears streaming down her face, my mother grabs my father by the collar of his shirt and shakes him violently. "There must be some strings you can pull, Barley! You know the mayor personally! THERE MUST BE SOMETHING YOU CAN DO!"

My father delicately peels her hands away, and places them against her chest. "Zia, even if the mayor's son was reaped, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. There is absolutely nothing I can do." He sends me a regretful look, and I see tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "Notty, I am so sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can't. There's…" A sob escapes from him, and he brings his hand up to his mouth. "There's nothing I can do."

"Don't give me that!" my mother screams, continuing to assault him.

Outside of the door I hear someone arguing with the Peacekeeper, but neither of my parents notice because they're too busy fighting.

"…my sister!" the stranger cries, and I hear the Peacekeeper shout after them, but they cannot stop the stranger from barging into the room.

A blond-haired figure rushes into the room, her face full to the brim with competing emotions. A single word falls from her lips: "Notty."

No, no. She's supposed to be dead. Mother and father both told me that she died in an accident.

"Leah?" I ask, clutching the teddy bear even tighter, my voice hardly above a whisper. "That can't be you. They told me you died. You can't be here if you're dead."

Fury floods through Lileia's pretty blue eyes, and she turns to my parents. "You told her that I was _dead_?"

At this point, my parents have both stopped fighting, and return her fury with equal magnitude. My mother answers, "You might as well have been. Getting engaged to that Lamont boy, then tarnishing our family's reputation by going off and marrying that gutter child!" She lets out a huff. "We couldn't expose Pagnotta to your rebellious ilk. So we preserved her innocence!"

"By letting her think that her older sister is _dead_?" Lileia screams, her voice loud like thunder. "This is why I left you! This is why I prefer the presence of that 'gutter child'! But Pagnotta? She doesn't deserve this."

Lileia crouches down and wraps me in a hug, before my parents can tear her away from me. "I love you, Pagnotta. I'm sorry that I haven't seen you in so long, but they forbade me from seeing you. I would have visited you sooner if I knew that you didn't hate me."

Then my parents call the Peacekeepers, and they drag Leah out of the room, literally kicking and screaming. "I love you Notty! Never forget that!"

They shut the door behind her, and the teddy bear slips from my hands.

I am so confused.

Mother and Father lied to me?

* * *

**Let me know what you think, and don't hesitate to let me know if I misrepresented your tribute.**

**Only three more reapings to go. I can almost taste the Capitol chapters.**


	12. District Ten Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Francisco Nastaysa, District Ten Escort**

* * *

Aw, man. I love District Ten.

Well, actually, I love cows. They're pretty cool. And since the Capitol is ninety percent urban sprawl, there is absolutely no room for farm animals. Which is a shame, really.

I mean, cows are adorable. And they convert grass into meat! Isn't that just wonderful? I love beef.

"So, Cathy, was it?" I ask, looking to my little District Ten assistant. She nods 'yes'. "Tell me, Cathy, do you own any cows?"

She quickly shakes her head 'no'. In a meek little voice, she answers, "No, sir. Almost no one in the district owns cows. Most of them are owned by the Capitol."

"Really? That's odd. I always had this idea that every District Ten resident lives on a quaint little farm and ropes cattle all day long and rides off into the sunset every day and gets fat off of dairy products."

At this, the little girl giggles. "None of that happens, Mr. Francisco. We don't get to eat the dairy and beef products. The people in the Capitol do."

I frown. "I'm sorry to hear that, Cathy."

Maybe someday I'll buy her a cow. And then I could come and visit once a year during the reapings.

Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.

* * *

**Idrial Coven, District Ten Female**

* * *

Even as I sit in the closet with my hands over my ears, I still hear my mother raging at my father. I don't even know what started it; all I know is that it very quickly turned into a violent shouting match between the whore and the politician.

"No!" she screams, her words raspy and ugly from years of chain smoking. "You are the one who brought me down! My life used to be beautiful before you ruined everything! I used to be gorgeous! Men used to line up just to see my face, just to get a glimpse of my radiant beauty!" Something crashes on the floor, and an indistinct shout rings through the house. "But you, you ugly bastard! You poisoned my entire life! I could have been a star! I could have married a man who was actually successful! Or, better yet, I could have still been single, and men would still be sending me gifts and food and jewelry. You destroyed my world! You shattered my only chance at happiness!"

_You did that you yourself, _I think bitterly.

Another crash vibrates through the floorboards, and in a strained voice, my father shouts, "Oh, trust me, Janet, you were doing a perfectly good job of ruining your life without me!"

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean, you cockroach?!"

"Just what you think it means, bitch!"

My mother lets out a harsh wail. "Fuck you!" I hear her footsteps echo across the hardwood floors as she tromps down the hallway, the wood protesting under her weight. Through the wall, right beside me, I hear her screech, "My life is ugly because of you, you ass-licking reprobate!"

_Like you even know what 'reprobate' means, you illiterate c-_

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have a roof over your head!" my father shouts, his voice quaking with rage. "I suggest you start showing me some respect, unless you want to be dumped out in the streets on your lazy whore-ass!"

Another angry wail escapes from her and she stomps to the back of the house, where she promptly slams her bedroom door.

The house finally falls silent.

Beside me, my boyfriend says, "Well, that was interesting."

I look to him and give a halfhearted smile. "I prefer boring."

Justin actually stayed the night, but it's not like my parents really care. Once they started fighting, we decided that the closet would be a good place the ride out the storm. Out of sight, out of mind. And I don't want to deal with either of my parents when they're angry, let alone force Justin to face their wrath. Besides, my closet is pretty comfortable.

"So…" he drawls awkwardly. "Can we leave the closet now?"

"What? Oh, right," I answer hurriedly. "Here."

I reach up to the silver knob, and the door opens with a tiny squeak. The white, soft light of my room pours into the closet, accompanied by a gust of cool, fresh air. Stumbling out onto the floor, I brush myself off and fix my hair, wondering how long the tentative calm will last, because I know that this is merely the eye of the storm. It will be just as bad later tonight. It always is.

"Let's get out of here," I say, still embarrassed that Justin had to hear my parents' argument.

He averts his eyes uncomfortably. "Yeah, let's do that."

* * *

**Birch Styler, District Ten Male**

* * *

_Five years, eight months, three weeks, four days prior_

My twelve-year-old hands tremble on the smooth table, my body full of fear, anxiety, anger, but above all, grief. Before me, the judge presides over a thin stack of papers, reading about the crime scene.

Outside of the courthouse, dark clouds roil in the sky, threatening rain. A sudden gust of wind whips through one of the trees, and the branch smacks into the window, though the glass holds steady. I hear a few people murmuring behind me, frightened by the storm, their voices low and mumbling. Unlike them, rain is the least of my worries.

"Ms. Hawking," the judge finally says, placing the papers down on the table. "As the defending attorney, how do you explain the defendant's whereabouts during the time of the homicides?"

Standing up to face the judge, my lawyer folds her hands in front of her and clears her throat. "You Honor, my defendant was at home, sleeping in his bed. What is there to explain?"

"And the only two people who could verify that alibi are both dead. Ms. Hawking, we have been over this."

My lawyer shakes her head. "And you honestly believe that a twelve-year-old boy, who is only five-foot-six and weighs less than one hundred and thirty pounds, could actually subdue a six-foot-six, two hundred and forty pound male and a six-foot-one, one hundred and sixty pound female? Let alone kill them?"

I have already told the disbelieving judge, at least fifteen times, that I am not the murderer. How could I be? What kind of person kills their own parents?

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the tears run down the sides of my nose, cringing and dying inside as I relive every horrible, painful detail of their deaths.

_It is dark outside. Someone knocks on the door, and my mother goes to answer. As she opens the door, a man storms into the walkway, burying a knife in her neck, and without so much as a whimper she falls to the ground, blood running from her neck, her eyes flicking to me and her lips desperately forming my name._

_My father turns the corner, asking who was at the door, not realizing what has happened to my mother. When he sees the man, and my mother dying on the ground, he lets out a yell and runs at the stranger, his eyes clouded over with surprise and rage. In one fluid motion, the intruder sidesteps and buries the dagger into my father's back. I still remember the sound that the knife made as it plunged into his flesh. As my father falls, the murderer drags the blade across his neck, all but ensuring his death. _

_Turning away from the two bodies, the masked man finally notices me standing in the doorway, and I swear I hear him smirk._

"_Nothing personal, kid," he says, his voice rough like gravel. "It's all just business." _

But no matter how much I plead, or how hard my lawyer works to prove my innocence, the entire game was rigged from the start, and everything I do is in vain.

"We, the Jury, find the defendant, Birch Styler, on both counts of premeditated homicide: guilty."

My heart drops as the tears rise. How could this happen?

"This is a miscarriage of justice," my lawyer whispers beside me, her eyes unreadable.

The judge looks up, and says, "Seeing as this is a case of homicide, the defendant's minor status is irrelevant." His cold, unsympathetic gaze rests upon me. "Birch Styler, you are being charged as an adult. As presiding judge of the Third Court of District Ten, I sentence you to twenty-eight years in district prison, fourteen years for each murder."

He raises the gavel and slams it down on the desk. Silence falls in the court.

I lie on my cot, staring at the cement ceiling. I look at the wall beside me, covered in little tick marks, and with a small piece of stone, I add another. Today is my two thousand, eighty-ninth day in jail. I've spent nearly one-third of my life rotting in this cell, for a crime I didn't commit.

"Wake up, maggots," calls Harvey, our jailer, as he drags his keys across the metal bars, the loud noise echoing painfully through the cement building. "Today is reaping day, and all of you wonderful delinquents are required to show your ugly faces out in public."

Oh, right. That.

Great.

* * *

**Idrial Coven**

* * *

I walk along the streets alone, my hands in my pant pockets. Justin had to go do something with his mom, which surprised me, because he is on almost as bad terms with his parents as I am with mine. But I didn't ask him any questions, so I don't really know what he's doing right now.

I drop by Coraline's house and knock on the door, hoping that she's still home.

Her mother, a mangy-looking woman in her early fifties, answers the door and glares at me suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"Is Coraline home?"

She leans back in the doorway and turns to the interior of the building. "Coraline!" she screeches. The sound that emanates from her vocal cords so hideous that I am sorely tempted to cover my ears, but I miraculously manage to keep my hands in my pockets out of respect. "You got a visitor!"

A tall, brown-haired girl emerges from the house, stepping down the porch haughtily.

We greet each other with a swift hug, and I ask her how she's doing, and she asks me how I'm doing, etcetera, etcetera. Without observing any more formalities, we set off down the road towards the reapings, because if we didn't attend, the Peacekeepers would come to arrest us. And neither of us want that.

At first we only speak of random boys, and how so-and-so is never going to have a girlfriend, and how so-and-so is cute and how so-and-so used to be fat and now he's skinny, and Are you serious, how could she possibly be going out with that slob? I'm definitely one for gossip, so I enjoy the time I spend with Coraline, no matter how shallow our conversations are.

I'm not entirely sure how we get onto the topic of my boyfriend, but we do.

"I'm totally jealous of you and Justin," Coraline says, catching me off guard.

"Huh?"

"I mean, he's totally hot."

"Yeah, he is," I say, smiling to myself. "I am lucky, aren't I?'

She smiles, too, but the expression seems cold. "I don't really think you deserve him."

As the registrar takes a sample of my blood, I cannot come up with a response. Did she really just say that?

"I mean, you're just _you_," she adds, almost as an afterthought.

The lady shoos me into the crowd, and I quickly walk away from Coraline, distraught. How could she say that? To my _face_, no less?

This is one of those times where I wish I had more friends than just her. Because she's just _her_.

By the time I find my spot among the fifteen-year-olds, the mayor has already finished her speech, and the escort is fawning over District Ten and all of our cows, his spiky, bright orange hair catching magnificently in the sunlight. I hate Capitolites. They have all the money, when really, the people of the districts are far more deserving of the wealth. Specifically, me. I want the wealth. I want to have crazy clothes and ridiculous makeup and lots of food and lots of rich friends.

"And so, that's why the Capitol loves District Ten the most. Bovine Divinity!" As he finishes his speech, he saunters over to the reaping bowl, and daintily picks up one of the names. "But, alas, the time has come to pick the glorious tribute who will have the privilege of going into the Hunger Games! Ladies first, of course!"

He glances at the paper, then shouts, "Idrial Coven!"

What?

I clench my fists and set my jaw.

No. I don't want to go into the Games.

I don't want to go!

When the Peacekeeper reaches for my arm, I push against his chest and scream at the top of my lungs. This is unacceptable!

"Do you have any idea who my father is?!" I shriek, surprising even myself. I mean, when was the last time I used my father's political status as a threat? "He is the mayor's right-hand-man, and he will make certain that you never get another job as long as you live!" Whatever gets the job done, I suppose. As long as they leave me alone.

But the Peacekeepers will have none of it.

They drag me, struggling and screaming, up onto the stage, where all of Panem can see my fear, and give me their unwanted pity. A few snicker rise from the crowd, and all I see is an ocean of unsympathetic faces.

I stand next to the escort with my arms crossed, and wipe the tears off of my face.

I hate everything.

* * *

**Birch Styler**

* * *

We walk in single file, the chains around our hands and ankles clanging with each footfall. The number of Games-eligible convicts in District Ten currently numbers at thirty-seven, and every single one of us must be present at the reapings or risk permanent incarceration. Beside me Harvey walks triumphantly, holding his baton threateningly at his side, ready to mercilessly strike anyone who steps out of line. Over the years, he's let the power of being a warden go to his head. I used to like him, but that isn't so true anymore.

From behind me, a nervous Trevin whispers, "Hey, Styler?"

"What?"

"You don't think I'll be picked, do you? I mean, that's impossible, right? I mean, I am a little kid, and the odds are ridiculous, right? I mean, just look at me! I won't last two seconds in the arena!"

I roll my eyes. Trevin has always been a worrier, and it's only gotten worse as he's spent more time behind bars. He's about three years younger than me, but he acts like he's eight.

"I can't assure you anything, Trevin. But you're right; your chances are pretty slim."

This seems to calm him down, if only for a moment, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I mean, I love the guy like a brother, but he can be real a pain in the ass.

"Halt!" one of the security guards cries, and we all come to an abrupt stop.

A crotchety-looking old man walks down the line, pausing at each inmate and testing our blood as he passes. When he gets to me, a wave of bourbon-soaked air accompanies him like a tidal wave, and I have to consciously keep myself from gagging, but despite my best efforts, I can still feel my eyes watering in protest.

After ten minutes, he gives us the go-ahead, and we shuffle along the dusty road to the section that has been cordoned off specifically for us. A number of bystanders look at us with disgusted glares and pitying smirks, and all other kinds of insulting gestures that they wouldn't be sending me if they knew that I was innocent. Hypocrite bastards.

Up on the stage, our very orange escort flaunts his fire-like clothing and shows off his glittery arm tattoos, spending half the time looking like a wimp-ass girly man, and the other half acting like a sparkly, yipping terrier. Every single year I have to put up with their stupidity, and with each passing Hunger Games they only seem to get stupider. Granted, the reapings are one of the few times when they let us outside of the cement box, but still, I am going to be glad when I am finally over and done with this bull crap.

The escort draws the girl tribute's name, who turns out to be some pretty young blonde. When the Peacekeepers make a move to grab her, she proceeds to scream about her daddy and how he would destroy their lives and how they should unhand her and whatever else she can come up with to make herself sound intimidating and powerful. The girl seems like a real handful.

"Next up, our manly man!"

I roll my eyes. _Yeah, something you ain't. _

Unfolding the all-important slip of paper, Francisco lets out a squeal of delight, and cries, "Do we have a Birch Styler in the crowd?!"

This takes me by surprise. Here I was, thinking that Trevin was an idiot for worrying so much, when I should have been the worried one.

Harvey unlocks my handcuffs, and I start rubbing my wrists, even though they aren't hurt. He then unhitches my shackles, and for the first time in almost three years, I am walking free outside of the prison. I could run away. I could run off into the forest, and never come back. But I know that someone would probably shoot me before then. So I don't run.

A security detail of two Peacekeepers, walking on either side of me, escorts me up to the stage.

One of them whispers, "Try anything, _anything_, and you will very suddenly find yourself without a brain, and the back of the stage will get some unwanted redecorating. Got it?"

Smiling at the cameras, I sarcastically answer, "Yes, sir."

I ascend the steps and walk up to my district partner. Francisco forces us to hold hands, which has something to do with fellow countrymen and countrywomen, and the entire crowd is completely silent.

I know that I have a chance, though. I am strong, I am fit, and I know how to deal with people that want to hurt me.

Maybe I'll even get to come home.

* * *

**Idrial Coven**

* * *

Coraline doesn't come to see me, which isn't surprising considering her little outburst earlier. Looking back, though, all of the signs were there; I just chose to ignore them. Apparently I was asking for too much when I wanted a real friend.

Janet isn't here so say goodbye to her only daughter, though I expected as much. Her shriveled, black heart has no room for anyone but herself.

My father, on the other hand, already came to say goodbye. Each family member only gets five minutes, so he used his time wisely and held me as I cried, and for the first time in a very long time he told me that he loved me. At first I was a little taken aback, in a good way, because my father has never been a very touchy-feely kind of person. I was… happy to hear him say it.

Now it is only Justin who stands in the doorway, not entirely sure what to do with his allotted time. He scratches the back of his leg with the opposite foot, rubs his neck, averts his eyes, anything to avoid actually interacting with me.

"So…" he begins awkwardly. "Not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do, exactly." He pulls a little blue stone out of his pocket, dangling from a thin silver chain. "I-I got this for you, I mean, seeing as you're going into the arena, I figured you'd need something to remind you of home, huh?"

Honestly, he can be so dense sometimes.

I stand up from the plush velvet seat, cross the room, and wrap him in an ironclad embrace. "Just hug me, damn it."

* * *

**Birch Styler**

* * *

Reith is my only visitor.

"He did it," he says coldly. "The son of a bitch had this planned all along."

I lean back on the couch, trying to keep my breathing steady. "Yeah, I figured."

His dark eyes narrow. "He murdered your parents, rigged the whole freaking system against you, got you drafted into the Hunger Games, and all you can say is, 'Yeah, I figured'? What's wrong with you, man?! Get angry!"

I throw my arms wide and feel my face contort into a sneer. "You think I'm not angry? Oh, sure, let me go dance in the field of roses alongside the herd of unicorns while underneath a rainbow, that'll solve all my problems!" I turn around and slam my fists down into the overly-cushioned red couch. "No, Reith. I'm pissed. If I could just cut and run, trust me, that's what I would do. But those Peacekeepers have bullets, and even though I'm fast, I'm not _that _fast."

Drumming his fingers against his leg, Reith looks to me. "Sorry, Birch. It's just, it's all so messed up." He takes something out of his pocket, a worn leather bracelet, and hands it to me. "I want you to have this as a token," he says.

I take the gift, smiling. I gave this to him for his tenth birthday, over eight years ago. I'm kind of surprised that he even kept it for this long. Kind of funny how some things change and some things stay the same.

"Thanks, Reith."

Smirking, he shakes his head and looks down at the ground. "You can thank me by staying alive."

* * *

**Hey, look at that. A day early. ;)**

**Let me know what you thought, and if I portrayed your tribute inaccurately, don't hesitate to let me know.**


	13. District Eleven Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Estrella de la Noche, District Eleven Escort**

* * *

"Ma'am, the bow is tied backwards."

I turn to look at myself in the mirror, and frown when I see that my assistant is correct. The knot is all wrong, making the deep red fabric fold over itself in the most hideous fashion.

"Dang it," I mutter, brushing a wavy strand of black hair out of my eyes. The Coordinator demanded that I put my hair up into a high ponytail, and even though I insisted that my thick hair was not made for such ventures, he absolutely insisted. Now my entire face is surrounded by obnoxious little strands of hair that have fallen out of place. That, combined with my awful dress failure, make me look like a hobo.

I let out a cry and bury my face in my hands. "What if I'm not cut out for this, Gerard? What do I do, then?"

He places a hand on my shoulder, and I look at him through the mirror. "Estrella, you'll do great. And if not, this will only take a few weeks at most, and then you can go home and never have to worry about escorting tributes ever again. In the meantime," he says, delicately taking my hands away from my face, "try not to mess up your makeup. After all, you don't want to look bad in front of Panem, do you?"

* * *

**Cascade Zephyr, District Eleven Male**

* * *

No one else is awake at this early hour, and the shanty town that I call home is dark and devoid of activity. The sky above is an odd shade of dark blue, with a half-full moon seemingly plastered right above the horizon, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of blinking stars, some white, some blue, some red, some green. I love walking before dawn because no one else is around to bug me, or try to strike up a conversation, or look at me like I am some outcast. I guess I am, though. An outcast.

Either way, I don't like the way they look at me.

As I continue walking along the path, shaded by dozens of mossy live oaks, I see a pair of Peacekeepers turn the bend far ahead of me, and my heart skips a beat. Because I am so far out past curfew, they could literally arrest me on the spot and throw me in jail for the next three months without batting an eye.

Without thinking, I jump into a nearby ravine, tumbling into the bushes, the twigs scratching my arms and face along the way. What are they doing here at this time of night? I've memorized all of their morning four O'clock patrol routes, and this isn't one of them. Not by a long shot.

Faintly, I hear one of the Peacekeepers, her voice low and strained. "…something to do. The Mayor has no idea, does she?"

The other Peacekeeper gives a scornful laugh. He responds, "The Fence was down yesterday for two hours. _Two whole hours_. And I talked with Tasha. The failure wasn't on our end."

"You mean…?"

"Yeah. It was the Capitol." The two stop walking, right next to my hiding spot. I am so close, I can hear their shoes crunching against the gravel as they turn to look at each other.

"But how?" the woman asks, the incredulity evident in her words. "They always have the Fence running. I honestly cannot remember a time when it hasn't been electrified. And even if it was them, what could have possibly happened on their end to shut off the power?"

The man shuffles uncomfortably, the rocks grinding under his uncertain footfalls. "You didn't hear it from me, okay?" He pauses for a moment, presumably so that his compatriot has time to nod. Then he says, "There's this rumor going around that it was because of the Games. They needed the electricity for something huge. Tasha thinks that it'll be used for some sort of super weapon, the kind that will take out half of the tributes all at once." Rather sheepishly, he adds, "But, I mean, that's just speculation."

The power failure was caused by the Hunger Games?

I clutch the branches of shrubbery even tighter, gritting my teeth at the memory. Watching him die, unable to hold him, or save him, or say goodbye, as his entire life escaped him in one strangled whisper. I _hate_ the Games.

They start walking again, and as their voices fade, I crawl up the side of the ravine and peek out from underneath the branches, careful to keep myself hidden. About two hundred yards away, the backs of the Peacekeepers continue to move farther and farther down the road. Pulling myself out across the shaded road, I brush myself off and thank my lucky stars for the trees that surround the road on either side. If they weren't here, if there was no shade, I would be totally exposed.

Something behind me snaps, and I involuntarily spin around, searching through the darkness for something that I cannot see. Perhaps it is time for me to leave.

I calmly walk down the road, muffling my own footfalls as best I can in the hopes that the Peacekeepers don't look behind them. Thankfully, they are too busy jabbering about the Fence that they take no notice of me.

I quickly depart from the main path, veering off onto one of the lesser-known game trails, swatting at mosquitoes and stumbling through the darkness. Little moonlight can reach through the dense canopy, so I am left to cautiously pick my way through the trees and underbrush, hoping that I don't step on a snake or spider. From here, my home is about two miles away. I think I can make it back before anyone notices that I'm gone.

* * *

**Selene Briony, District Eleven Female**

* * *

Sprinting through the meadow, I cry, "Catch me if you can, suckers!"

The blades of grass whip against my shins, and I can hear my friends running through the field and catching up behind me, which only incites me to run even faster.

I sprint up to one of the oak trees and hoist myself up into the upper-branches, out of Cerise's reach. I swing over to the other side of the tree, then climb up another ten feet.

"No fair!" Cerise cries, about twenty feet below. "I can't climb like you can!"

Laughing, I seat myself in the crook between two branches. "That's the point, Hummingbird."

I feel a gentle tap on my arm, and I turn to see Desiree hanging on one of the branches behind me, a smirk on her pretty face. "Gotcha," she says.

"Swan!" I cry with mock-anger. "You're such a sneak!"

Desiree gracefully lowers herself onto a nearby branch, still bearing that Cheshire grin. "Only because you're oblivious. A thundering herd of cattle could come barreling through here, and you'd never notice. You'd just be left wondering where all of the manure came from."

I lean against the tree and shake my head. "Oh, please." My smile fades by a fraction. "It's not like we get any cows, anyways."

"Yeah," she drawls. "But we get trees. And I'd rather have trees, anyways."

"I guess." I look out across the flat Earth, covered in a green ocean of rippling grass.

The Fields. Cerise and Desiree are lucky enough to live in the richer parts of the district, but I call this place my home. It's generally referred to as the poorest neighborhood in all of District Eleven; no running water, no indoor plumbing, no electricity except for the televisions, and those are only on when the Capitol forces us to watch the Hunger Games every single year. I've never much liked the Games. Too much violence, too much pointless bloodshed.

Speaking of the Games, today is reaping day. Huh. I really don't want to go, mostly because I know that my chances aren't too good. From the time I turned twelve, I've taken out tessarae on seven separate occasions, which brings my ticket count up to twelve. Of course, there are thousands of other Games-eligible girls in the pool of names, some of whom have taken out dozens and dozens of tessarae. In fact, one of my neighbors, Jaycee, has six siblings and seven cousins who all depend on her, and she's taken out eighty-five tessarae over the last six years. Her chances are dirt compared to mine. But still, there's that little niggling fear at the back of my mind, the kind of anxiety that can't be warded off with logic or math.

Even so, I choose not to linger on such things. I'd rather enjoy my morning, sitting in a tree beside my friends. Why worry myself with stuff that I can't change?

* * *

**Cascade Zephyr**

* * *

I lean against one of the trees, unwilling to join the throngs of children, compelled by Panem law to attend the oh-so glorious reapings.

Here, I am surrounded by death. Any one of these kids could be dead in less than two weeks.

Looking down at the dusty ground, I trace a figure in the dirt with my foot, then hurriedly wipe it away.

Reaping day.

Every year, all of us between the age of twelve and eighteen have to attend this cruel event, and each time it feels as if the Capitol spits in my eye, taunting me with the memory of my brother. They took him five years ago. Ripped him away from my family, and from me.

I refused to watch the Fifty-Ninth Hunger Games. I hid in my room, my twelve-year-old self too afraid to watch as my older brother died in a pathetic fit of gasps and sputters, strangled to death by the boy from Six.

Cheskel taps my shoulder, bringing be back to the present.

"We probably should get a move on," she murmurs, her dark hair sliding over her shoulder as she looks to me. "The Peacekeepers might come after us with batons if we take any longer."

I push off from the tree, knowing that my friend speaks the truth, even though I would rather do a thousand other things than attend the reapings. Today, two families will suffer a crippling blow, something that I know from personal experience they will recover from. This entire system is messed up.

Cheskel, Terra, and I walk down the road to the registration table, where the kindly old woman confirms out identity, then waves us along. I give a curt nod to each of my friends, then head off to my spot in the crowd among the seventeen-year-olds. All around me, young boys are quivering with fear, knowing that today could be the day when the Capitol all but signs their death certificate. I look down at the ground. Children should not be made to endure such things.

Up on the stage, I see our two past victors, Mayzie and Rokko standing side by side. She won the Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games at the age of seventeen, and he won the Forty-Ninth Hunger Games at the age of eighteen. Neither of them look happy to be here.

I also see the escort, though I don't pay her much mind. She's just an overdressed ditz, like the rest of the Capitolites.

We sit in the afternoon heat for about ten minutes, baking in the intense sunlight, until Mayor Persh finally walks out on stage. She gives her speech, talking about the Treaty of Treason and the glorious Capitol, and it seems as if she will talk forever. But finally, after thirty minutes, she thanks the crowd and hands the microphone off to the young lady from the Capitol.

"Hello, District Eleven," she says, her voice heavy with that ridiculous accent. "My name is Estrella de la Noche, and I have the privilege of escorting two fine young warriors into the heat of battle." Does she even realize what she just said? Child-warriors? Really?

She reaches into the glass bowl and delicately withdraws one name from among the thousands in the bowl. "For the male, we have none other than Cascade Zephyr!"

A harsh gasp runs through the crowd, though I can do nothing other than smile bitterly. After all, why should I be surprised? My older brother participated in one of the previous Hunger Games, which automatically bumps up my chances of being chosen. Why does the crowd gasp with such horror? The Capitol loves to rip families apart and grind us into the dust. It's nothing new.

I quickly walk up to the stage, refusing to make eye-contact with the disgusting Capitol ilk. Hatred seethes deep within me. I have been marked for death for the past five years, and now it finally has come to pass.

"And now," Estrella says cheerily, oblivious to my rage, "time for the female!"

* * *

**Selene Briony**

* * *

"Huh," Cerise mumbles, holding her hand up to block the sun from her eyes. "It's getting kinda late. You guys think it's time to start heading to the reapings?"

I groan internally and sigh. "Yeah, I guess so."

This is, by far, the worst day out of the entire year. I hate the reapings. Well, I guess everyone does. Except for the Capitolites, but they're all crazy, so their opinions don't matter anyways.

We leave the Fields, and by foot it takes about two hours to reach the center of town, where the sheer mass of humanity is enough to make my skin crawl. Don't get me wrong, I love people, but a crowd of this size is a little bit too much, even for me.

An old guy at the registration table samples our blood, then shoos us off, mumbling something about slowpoke youngins. I shake my head and suppress a laugh. I haven't heard that word in… gosh, at least six years. Youngin. Ha.

I wave to my friends and file myself into the rows and rows of sixteen-year-old girls. There is an odd vibe in the air, the kind that indicates an unspoken fear, though the anxiety is apparent in our darting eyes and trembling hands and downcast faces. No one wants to be here.

The mayor gives her awfully long speech, which is only made worse by the unbearably hot and muggy weather. Doesn't she realize that, while she gets to stand in the shade up on stage, we all have to stand down here, dying in the sun?

Finally, the escort takes the microphone. Her long, black, wavy hair is pulled back into a huge, puffy ponytail, though all of the ringlets are shiny and separate, as if she greased them beforehand. Her strapless scarlet dress falls all the way down to the ground, and around her waist is a huge red bow that's wider than her chest. But other than her hair and clothing, she looks fairly normal. Bright red lipstick and ridiculous mascara aside, she could actually pass for human.

Estrella pulls the guy's name, and calls for Cascade Zephyr. Everyone gasps, because we remember. Chet Zephyr was reaped five years ago, and he made it all the way to the final four. But he did not win. And for the Capitol to take Cascade, his family's only other son? That's cruel. Plain and simple.

But he walks up to the stage seemingly without fear, rage etched into every single one of his features. I wonder what's going through his mind. Nothing happy, I'm sure.

"And now for the ladies!" the escort cries. She thrusts her hand into the bowl, and withdraws a single slip. "Will Selene Briony please approach the stage?"

Oh.

I sigh and look at the ground, a million different things rushing through my mind. Trying to keep my anger in check, I force myself to walk up to the stage, a false image of calm on my face. My lips twitch into a cool smirk, because it is the calmest expression I can manage. Swan's words echo through my mind, _'First impressions are everything'_.

Stepping up onto the stage, I shake hands with the escort and look to the cameras with a false smile, wishing that I could just reach through them and strangle the Capitolites on the other end. They actually enjoy this stuff? Our fear, our anger?

"Alright," Estrella chirps. She links my hand with Cascade's, and I wave to the audience and the cameras, hoping that it at least looks genuine, because it doesn't feel genuine at all.

"Thank you District Eleven, and may the odds be _ever_ in you favor!"

* * *

**Cascade Zephyr**

* * *

The tears fall freely from my mother's face, but my father is completely silent. I know that he doesn't want to show any emotion, even though he's dying inside. They've already had to go through this once. What did my parents ever do to deserve this a second time? What did they do to deserve it the first time? What did any of the Panem parents do to have their children ripped away from them and murdered in the cruelest ways imaginable?

I am tired. Tired of crying parents, tired of dead siblings. Just tired.

Cheskel leans on my shoulder, sobbing into my shirt, while Terra stands awkwardly in the corner, not entirely sure what to do with himself.

Around my wrist is a single circlet of grass that has gone to seed, picked from one of the fields near my house and woven by Cheskel. It will be my token, to remind me of the meadows and rippling oceans of grass, and the fruit trees and the faces of the people that I hold so dear.

"Please come home," my mother murmurs through her tears. "Please, Cascade."

It isn't even a question, or a low-spoken encouragement. It is a plea. I am my mother's only remaining son, and now it is entirely up to me to ensure that she still has a son when this Game is over.

But I honestly don't know if I can fulfill her wish.

* * *

**Selene Briony**

* * *

How could this have happened to me?

"Sparrow, you are going to come home," Desiree says, her arms crossed in that frightened way that indicates she isn't too sure about what she's saying. "I know you will."

"Yeah," Cerise says, smiling brightly. "You'll be fine."

Why can't I think as positively as my friends? Probably because I'm sitting here, and they're sitting there. I don't have the luxury of wishing someone well, because I _am_ that someone who will be entering the fray, not them. But at the same time, I cannot give up hope. Keeping my chin up is half the battle, so if I can do that, I've already done more than most other District Eleven tributes ever have.

I can't give up.

My mother hands me a simple leather necklace, complete with a silver sparrow pendant. "I brought it, just like you asked."

I nod and thank her, staring at the little metal bird. My family gave this to me for my sixteenth birthday, and I think it'll make a great token. Small, portable, pretty. Everything that a token should be.

Looking around the room, I see my mother and father, Desiree and Cerise, my older brother, Falcon, and my younger brother, Lark. I am lucky to have them in my life. To think that they could all be taken away from my so soon…

I need to come home.

* * *

**Let me know what you think!**

**Sorry for the wait, life decided to get busy all of a sudden.**

**If I didn't portray your tribute correctly, don't hesitate to tell me.**


	14. District Twelve Reapings

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Horton Myles, District Twelve Escort**

* * *

I stare solemnly at the gray sky, wondering why I'm even here. I signed up to escort for the Hunger Games, expecting to actually get a _fun _district, like Seven or Four. But no, being the lucky person I am, I get assigned to the poorest, drabbest place in all of Panem. Even District Eleven is more pleasant! And that place is chock-full of poverty and suffering! But District Twelve? It's out in the boondocks, home to all manner of hicks and rednecks who wouldn't know good fashion if it broke into their house and started dancing the cha-cha.

Thinking about my predicament, I realize that it's up to me to make these reapings interesting. Since the people and the place are boring, I, as the escort, must be interesting.

I can't rely on these peasants, which makes me solely responsible for impressing the Capitol.

And impress them, I will.

* * *

**Charcoal Paxton, District Twelve Female**

* * *

My fingers fly across the black and white keys, tapping out a trill of delicate notes, then diving deep into a powerful crescendo. I sway with the music, letting the notes fill me to the very brim, and I become something more than I am even if it is only for a moment. The piano pours out the music, and I can hear the vibrations echo through the soft white room, a thousand identical orchestras all playing just for me. It almost feels like magic, buzzing through the air like electricity.

Here, with my music, I don't have to pretend. The façade drops the second I walk into my house, because unlike my friends, I don't need to please my family, and I definitely don't need to please the music. They don't judge. They all accept me for who I am.

They'll never leave me.

I quickly turn the page and manage to keep playing, the sound like one unbroken, fluid train of silk. Down in the streets below, I wonder if the unsuspecting passerby can hear my song? In a way, I hope they do.

According to my music teacher, this song is one of the oldest in existence. Through some miracle it survived the Rebellion, thank goodness, alongside maybe two hundred other pieces of sheet music.

I love playing the piano. If this composition hadn't survived, I don't know what I'd do. It's just so… pretty.

Freezing my hands in place, I let the note fade away into nothing, ending the song on a whim. That's another nice thing about music: I have complete control over what I play. It's a nice feeling, really. When I'm here alone, I don't need to impress anyone. This is all for me.

A small knock on the door draws my attention, and I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway, a thin smile on her face. "Your friends are here, Charlie."

I sigh. Bringing the lid down over the keys, I seal myself off from the music, a slight pang of remorse nudging my heart. Now I have to go hang around my friends, where I must pretend to be someone that I'm not. But I need to be around them, and I need them to like me. The alternative is just… unacceptable.

I flounce down the stairs, where I find Willow and Silvia waiting in the lobby.

"Where's Antebellum?" I ask. Normally she's stuck to Silvia like superglue.

Silvia sighs snottily, and tosses her long, silvery-white hair over her shoulder. "Her dad made her help with today's set-up. You know, what with her being the mayor's daughter and all."

I snicker and walk out into the dusty streets, my friends following closely behind. "Yeah, well. If that's the only downside, I wouldn't mind having her job."

"I suppose." Silvia looks at my simple blue silk dress and raises a finely-trimmed eyebrow. "You're wearing that to the reaping?" Cracking a beautiful smile, she says, "You're brave, Charcoal. I wish I had your courage to wear plebeian clothing out in public."

Even though I know that was the definition of a backhanded compliment, I've gotten used to hearing it from Silvia. She's been like this since she hit puberty and became even more beautiful than she was before. I know that she likes handing out insults, and I also know that she expects me to just take the insult, because I always do. Today is no different. I can't fight back, otherwise Silvia might get offended and end our friendship. There is no shortage of people just waiting to become friends with a girl as popular as she is. So, I will do nearly anything in order to preserve our twelve-year relationship, even if it means putting up with backhanded insults and snotty attitudes. She's the popular one, so she holds the reins of power. Not to mention, she is one of my oldest and only friends. I just… I just want her to like me.

* * *

**Taun Navarro, District Twelve Male**

* * *

The dirt glides underneath me, and I can feel the impact of my feet all the way up in my stomach, though the feeling is a familiar one. After all, I am the messenger boy.

For about three years I have been running messages all over District Twelve. Some people say that District Twelve is tiny, but I would like to see them run all over the district and back for an entire week, and then tell me just how small it is. Really, though, I do enjoy running. It's as close to flying as I'll ever get, so it almost feels like freedom. Or at least what I imagine freedom to feel like. Living in Panem, especially outside of the Capitol, there isn't a whole lot of freedom going on.

In my left hand the letter feels heavy, bulging with something that feels like a rock. But who sends a rock in the mail?

Anyways, I can't open the letter to see what's inside. Not only would I betray my client's trust, but it would be wrong. So I can't, even though I really want to.

As I enter the wealthier part of the district, a get a few snobby leers from the richer citizens, but I also get a couple of happy smiles from people who recognize me as their mail-carrier. With my job, I always get to meet a lot of people, which is something that I love. New people means the possibility for new friends. Plus, almost half of the district knows my name, and that's a special feeling.

I flip the letter over in my hand, re-reading the send address, and stop in front of a large manor-type house. Interlocking white stones cover the outside, and the windows are big enough to span the entire height of the house. My shoes squeak against the shiny dark stones that form the walkway, and by the time I reach the top of the hill where the house sits, I can see almost all the way down the block.

Giving the door a quick knock, I stand under the overhang, wondering how much their fancy door cost.

An older woman answers the door, her dark hair pulled back into a braid. "Can I help you, young man?"

I hand the letter over to her. "For you, Mrs. Fae."

She delicately takes the envelope and smiles. "Ah, yes. I was expecting this." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a couple of coins, counts out the correct payment, then pours the small stack into my outstretched hand. "Thank you, young Master Navarro. Keep the change."

Grinning, I say, "Thank you, ma'am! Have a nice day!"

With a subtle smile, she replies, "The same to you, Mr. Navarro."

I skip down the walkway and run back out into the street, where I look at the coins with excitement. She almost paid me double what the delivery was worth! That'll make my parents proud. Almost all of the money I earn goes to pay for food and clothing for my six younger siblings, especially since my father's mining job doesn't pay very well at all, and my mother's seamstress work is just about the lowest-paying job in the entire district. I like to know that I'm helping.

For the first time, I notice the sheer number of kids out on the streets, talking nervously and all headed in the same direction. I rack my brain, trying to think of a reason for everyone to be out on the streets today.

Then I remember: it's reaping day.

"Aw, shoot!" I cry, stuffing the money into my pants pocket. I totally forgot about the reapings, and it's already one thirty.

I sprint off towards the center of town, hoping that they don't charge me for being late.

* * *

**Charcoal Paxton**

* * *

Silvia and I stand next to each other in the sixteen-year-old section, both of us wondering how much longer this speech is going to take. Mayor Serrice, Antebellum's mom, has been blabbing away for the past fifteen minutes, and she seems to have no intention of finishing anytime soon.

"And so, in accordance with the Treaty of Treason, two tributes shall be chosen from each of the twelve districts, one male and one female between the ages of twelve and eighteen…"

I sigh and roll my eyes. "This is such a waste of time."

With a scoff, Silvia says, "You can say that again."

A warm feeling blossoms in my chest. I really like when she agrees with me; it means that she appreciates my input, and will be less likely to ditch me.

Up on stage, our lone mentor is nowhere to be found, but I do see our escort. I fight to keep myself from falling into a fit of laughter, because that would be rude. But he just looks so weird! With his bright purple hair swept up into a Mohawk and his golden vest, he looks like someone who got into a fight with a rainbow and lost. As in, unconditional surrender.

A couple minutes later, the escort takes the microphone, and with great flourish, steps forward and announces with a booming voice, "Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games! I am Horton Myles, and I have the honor of escorting two tributes into the fray!" He holds up a orange-gloved fist, and says, "With this very hand, I have the power to alter fate itself!" Oh, so he's one of _those_ escorts. I feel bad for whoever has to go with him. "Shall we see whose life shall be changed forevermore?"

He delicately lowers his hand into the bowl, and withdraws one name from among the hundreds of papers. I'm not worried, really. I mean, I've never even taken out tessarae. Why should I be?

With a flick of his wrist, he opens the paper, and with his booming voice he reads off the name. "Miss Charcoal Paxton, please step forward!"

An involuntary gasp escapes from me as soon as he reads off those two words.

Wh…what?

I feel my jaw go slack, but there isn't much I can do about it. This is… this is… impossible. Completely, horridly impossible.

My own body refuses to respond.

Someone grabs my arm and gently guides me out of the crowd, down the dirt path, and up onto the stage. They whisper something in my ear, either advice or encouragement, but I don't hear it.

The escort tries to speak to me, but the shock has frozen every thought in my mind. The gears are stuck, cemented in place.

I slowly become more aware of my surroundings, so painfully aware. I am on stage, getting ready to be shipped off to the Hunger Games. And I doubt that I gave the Capitol a good first impression.

But, ever the escort, Horton charges on. "And now, time to pick the male!"

* * *

**Taun Navarro**

* * *

I stand in line alongside Marcie, but we don't talk very much. We aren't very good friends, mostly because I'm always out delivering mail and rarely have time to spend with her. I wish we could talk more, but the awkwardness gets the best of us.

The man takes a sample of my blood, then a sample of her blood, and sends us on our way. I wave to her, and she waves to me, and we both find our spots in our respective parts of the crowd.

No one is really in the mood to speak, mostly because we're all afraid. After all, one of us is going to the Capitol today against our will, and everyone is hoping that it won't be them, because the Hunger Games are brutal and evil. They turn the tributes into something that they aren't, something so much worse.

Up on the stage, Mayor Serrice takes at least twenty minutes to give a five-minute speech, going off on tangents about random things like the weather and how great Capitol fashion is. And then she takes another five minutes to read the Treaty of Treason, so by the end of it, we're all tired and bored. I look up at the clouds to see if I can pick out any shapes, but it's all a monotonous sheet of gray. Nothing interesting.

Finally, the escort rushes forward, and with a pelvic thrust, he cries, "Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" He introduces himself as Horton Myles, and gives his own little speech about the awesomeness of the Games.

Then he picks the female. "Charcoal Paxton!"

I feel a little cold pang of fear, because I recognize the name. I've delivered mail to the Paxton home before. They're pretty nice.

A Peacekeeper has to drag her from her spot and take her up to the stage, where her mouth remains open in a near-comical O-shape. The escort tries to talk to her, but she doesn't respond. I don't think she's entirely present at the moment.

The escort keeps up his overly-bright smile, but he shakes his head disapprovingly at her unresponsiveness, the movement almost imperceptible. He then turns back to the audience and snaps his oddly manicured fingers. "And now, time to pick the male!" As he reaches into the bowl, the microphone picks up the sound of rustling papers. I wonder whose name will be drawn.

He looks at the paper and smiles. "Taun Navarro!"

A collective gasp erupts from the audience. After all, at least half of them know me, if not by name then at least by my face.

Surprise is the only emotion I can manage. As if on their own, my feet step forward, breaking free of the crowd and taking me down the dirt pathway, thousands upon thousands of eyes watching me as I go.

Horton looks down at me with a frightening smile, but I somehow manage to smile back at him.

Am I really here? Is this really happening?

Because it doesn't feel real.

None of this feels real.

* * *

**Charcoal Paxton**

* * *

My dad sits next to me and places his hand on my shoulder, as if it will make any of this less unbearable. Cade, my older brother, sits on the other side of me, staring at the wall, completely silent. Normally he's loud and obnoxious, but not today.

"This is just so wrong," my mother squeaks, her voice constricted by the tears. She places her hand on her chest and holds her other hand up to her mouth to suppress a sob. "They can't take you, Charlie!"

I look down at the ground and fold my hands. As my throat constricts, I don't entirely trust myself to speak, so I wait for the sensation to pass. When I do speak, though, everything comes tumbling out of my mouth in one big rush of words. "I'm going to need a token. I-I forgot to bring one, so I think it would be really nice to have one and I was wondering if any of you have something that I can take with me into the arena? You know, something nice but no too nice? After all, I might not…" The words taper off into nothingness as I realize what I was about to say. _Might not come back._

Silvia shakes her head slowly. She's a lot more quiet than usual, and actually seems sad about my leaving, if only a little bit.

But at the mention of a token, my mother's hands dart to her ears, where they struggle to take off her earrings, the pretty jade ones that used to belong to my grandmother. She clutches them in her fist, and for a moment she holds them close to her chest. Then, holding her hand out, she offers the earrings to me, almost like a sacrifice.

"But they're so nice," I say, the tears creeping up on me. "I shouldn't take them."

"You are taking them, Charcoal," she commands, her voice wavering. "I give you permission." Lowering her voice, she adds, "It's okay, dear."

I wrap my hands around the earrings and look around the room at my loved ones. What if this is the last time I see them?

This can't be happening.

* * *

**Taun Navarro**

* * *

I can't leave my family. Not now.

My mother stands next to me, holding my youngest sister in her arms. "Taun, I am so sorry this happened to you," she says through her tears. She leans over to hug me, and I wrap my arms around her neck. "I am so sorry, baby."

Even though I try to hold the tears back, my attempts are in vain, and I let out a sob. "I don't want to go."

My father walks over and joins in on the embrace. "It's okay, Taun."

My five other siblings walk over and wrap their arms around my parents' waists. Annabelle, Laurence, Owen, Pippa, Carlie… I won't be able to take care of them if I'm in the arena.

In my pocket, the white rook weighs heavily. I take it with me everywhere, and I know that it will make the perfect token. Alongside the rook I feel the coins, the payment for my delivery earlier today. Taking the money out, I hand it to my mother. "Here, this is for you."

She looks solemnly at the change, then nods and gives me the only smile she can manage. "Thank you, Taun."

I wish I could give her more. My family needs me.

I don't want to go.

* * *

**Reapings are finally done, wooo hooo! On to the Capitol!**

**So, ladies and gentlemen, since the monotonous reapings are over with, I thinks it's time to give you a bit of a heads-up: when determining which tributes to keep alive and which to let go, I take into account which submitters are still following the story, and which submitters aren't. Reviews and PM's are the only way I know whether you are still following the story or not. I just think that it is inconsiderate on my part to kill off the tribute of a loyal reviewer whilst keeping alive the tribute of someone who isn't even following the story anymore. And plus, I like to know what you all are thinking of the character interaction, general writing, etc. Your opinions matter to me!**

*****That being said, for all of you who have left behind consistent or semi-consistent reviews or PM's: You are lovely. *hug***

**And, lastly, I have three questions for you:**

**Which escort(s) do you like the most?**

**Which tributes do you like the most so far?**

**What alliances/rivalries do you think will form as we move into the Capitol?**


	15. The Long Way Home

**I do not own the Hunger Games. I do not own the song. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Train Rides**

* * *

_Well, I can hear the whistle from a mile away _  
_ It sounds so good _  
_ But I must stay away _  
_ That train is a beauty, makin' everybody stare _  
_ But its only destination is the middle of nowhere_

* * *

**Linden**** Cooper, District Seven**

* * *

This train is ridiculously well-furnished. Ruffled cream curtains hang over the windows, though a few shafts of late-afternoon sunlight still spill through and fall across the tables in slats of gold. Huge, colorful bouquets of flowers sit on the two appetizer tables, surrounded by silver platters of cream puffs, sliced bread, fruit cups, cupcakes, and at least ten other foods that I've never seen before. The tables and chairs are all made of mahogany, which I know from experience is a highly expensive type of wood: very pretty, highly sought-after, and it takes forever to grow. Why would they waste so much wealth on a simple train car?

I have no idea where my district partner ran off to. She's probably sitting in one of the other train cars, crying where no one can see her. Eh. All the better. If she remains out of sight, it means what I won't be tempted to kill her before we arrive at the Capitol.

My escort leans back on a gray chair, hiding in a rectangle of shade. He-she-it keeps staring at me from underneath their feminine eyelashes, and the enigma of their gender is driving me insane.

"So you are the brother of Daphne Cooper?" the escort asks. Their voice is low, like a man, but I've met women with similar vocal ranges.

I give a curt nod.

He-she-it averts their too-pretty eyes and purses their lips. "I am sorry for your loss." They look at me again, and add, "The entire Capitol mourned her. We always hate it when a twelve-year-old dies."

I don't want this person's pity. I don't want their empty words of consolation. I mourned my sister more than the entire Capitol ever did, or ever could. And while they forgot her death, I still remember. I will always remember.

The escort opens their mouth to say something else, but I cut them off. "Are you male or female?"

Their manicured eyebrows rise with surprise. "I'm a guy. Why do you ask?"

I lean forward in my seat, finally at ease. "I just needed to know whether or not I had to hate you. And I don't."

Skye, I think his name is, gives me another weird look. "What do you mean?"

"If you were a woman, I would hate you."

He narrows his black eyes, apparently in disbelief. "You can't be serious." It's not even a question. It's a statement. My escort honestly can't believe what I just said.

I fold my hands and rest them against my lips. My eyes flick to meet my escort's gaze, and I reply, "I am dead serious."

The resulting stare that I receive is both entertaining and unnerving. "What about your mother? Surely you don't hate her?"

"She's the exception to the rule." I lower my voice to nearly a whisper. "As was Daphne."

Skye shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I can tell that he doesn't like what I have to say. "And your district partner? Do you hate her, too?"

I nod slowly, and look out of the window, where the forest flies by at a blinding speed, blurring into a single frame of brown and green and blue. "Flavia dies first."

At this, Sky stands from his seat, shoving his hands into his shiny black jacket. I think I see fear in his pretty, pale face. "Right. Well, if you'll excuse me," he says, voice conveying an odd combination of disgust and worry, "I'll be leaving now. I need to go check up on her."

As Skye hurries away, the female mentor stands up and follows him out of the train car. She shoots me a concerned look, but otherwise remains silent.

That leaves me alone with the male mentor. I believe his name is Teak? Or, at least, he asked us to call him Teak. Whether it's his real name or just a nickname, I have no idea. I send him a smile, knowing that he'll be the one to show me how to take advantage of my abilities and avenge Daphne. Blood will run across the arena in my sister's honor.

But Teak doesn't return my smile. There is no friendliness in his eyes; they have lost all of the warmth from when he introduced himself and shook my hand like a long-lost friend, no more than half and hour ago.

I don't understand. Was it something I said?

* * *

**Charcoal Paxton, District Twelve**

* * *

I stare at the blue gelatinous goop that sits quivering on my spoon. If I look closer, I can pick out hundreds of little pieces of something that vaguely resemble fruit, completely immobile in the jelly-like substance. Tentatively, I bring the spoon to my lips and taste the "delicacy", as Horton calls it, and promptly spit it out, disgusted by the overly-sweet mixture of lemongrass, blueberries, oranges, cloves, and grapefruit,

"Do you like it?" the escort asks, his neon green eyes fixed upon me with eager anticipation.

Holding my hand over my mouth, I nod. "Mhm. It's great."

No, it is not great. Who even thought of such a god-awful combination? I honestly think I am going to throw up. But I can't let Horton know how much it disgusts me, because then he might hate me for not liking what he likes. And I don't want him to hate me.

He gives me a bright smile. "Oh, well that's just dandy, because we have an entire tray of Blueberry Bordeaux with your name written all over it."

I shake my head and place the gelatin on the table. _Think fast, think fast._ "You know what? There are so many other foods here on this train, I really don't want to spoil my appetite with just one. I'd rather try a little bit of everything, you know?"

Horton claps his hands and bustles out of the train car. Over his shoulder, he cries, "There's so much food, you won't even know what to do with it all! I'll be right back, my dear."

With I sigh, I fold my hands in my lap. What am I even doing here?

"Nice save," my district partner says as soon as Horton is out of earshot, an impish grin on his freckled face. Taun knows that was just a ruse. Does that mean he won't like me? Have I ruined my chance at an alliance with him because I lied?

Flipping my dark brown hair over my shoulder, I smile, pouring as much innocence into the expression as humanly possible. "What ever could you mean, Taun?" At this, of all things, he starts _laughing_. "And just what is so funny?"

Giggling, he replies, "You." He tries to say something else, but he falls into another laughing fit before he can get a single word out.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Is he laughing with me, or is he laughing at me? And if he's laughing at me, is it because I am funny, or is it because I am weird?

When Taun finally manages to calm himself down, he says, "You're funny, Charcoal. I like you."

So, it was the good kind of laughter, then. Internally, I breathe a sigh of relief. He even said he _likes_ me. Apparently I am doing something right.

A few moments later, our mentor stumbles in through the door, a glass bottle of vodka in one hand and a cupcake in the other. Ladies and gentlemen, behold the renowned Haymitch Abernathy, District Twelve's sole surviving mentor, a general disgrace to the population. I've heard that he was a drunk, but I would have thought that he'd at least stay sober today, when he gets to meet the two kids he's supposed to help survive in the arena. But it looks like that is too much to ask.

"Hello, Mr. Abernathy," I say cheerily, hoping to make a good first impression. Drunkard or not, I still want to get on his good side.

"Hi, Haymitch," Taun says, raising his hand.

Our mentor looks none too pleased to meet us. He plops himself down on the red velvet chair, unceremoniously takes a swig of the alcohol, then wipes his mouth and leers at Taun and me suspiciously. Good grief, the uncultured oaf smells awful.

With a belch, he says rather coldly, "So, you two are District Twelve's sole chance at victory this year?"

The tone of his voice indicates that he expects us to last maybe three minutes in the arena before a career comes along and snaps our necks in half. _Thanks for the vote of confidence, Haymitch,_ I think sourly.

"Yes," I say, a little miffed, but still keeping my voice kind and level because I don't want to offend him. "We're all you've got."

He runs a hand through his dark, curly hair, and offers a bitter smile. "Well, we have some work to do, don't we?"

* * *

**Rumor Cobalt, District Three**

* * *

Zeno looks out the window at the passing countryside. I think this is the most green either of us has ever seen, and I have the primal urge to run outside and dance in the grass. But, seeing at we're racing along at a brisk one hundred and fifty miles per hour, that probably wouldn't be the best idea.

My district partner is smart. That much I know. And he seems pretty naive, which is even better. In fact, I think he'll make the perfect ally.

Resting my cheek on my fist, I ask, "Your name is Zeno, right?"

He looks to me and gives a small nod. "Yeah."

I contort my lips into a smile. I hope it doesn't seem too forced. "Tell me, Zeno, are you excited to see the Capitol?"

He averts his eyes and shakes his head. "Not really. I'd rather go home."

Before I can stop myself, I say, "Well, I'd rather be at the Capitol." Lie number one. I want to go home, too. "After all, the Games are pretty exciting." Lie number two. I hate the Games. "And to be honest, I think that if you and I team up, we'll both get really far in the arena." Lie number three. Zeno looks like he won't live past the bloodbath, but I figure that it would be in my best interest to keep this little opinion to myself. I'd rather he be my ally and teach me everything he knows during training, or at the very least prove useful as a meat-shield in the arena. Either way, it would still be to my advantage.

He brightens, ever so slightly. "You really want to be my ally?"

Nodding, I say, "Yes, I do. We're both going to be the smartest tributes in the entire arena, so why not? We can help each other."

Freya, my mentor, places a hand on my arm. Her gaze is sharp and searching, and for a brief moment I fear that she knows about my lies. But my fears are dispelled when she opens her mouth to say, "I think that an alliance between you two would be a great decision."

I feel a grin creep across my face, this time for real. I actually fooled them! They're more witless than I could have hoped.

"I'm glad you think so," I say, a laughing tone in my voice.

Gridd, Zeno's mentor, gives me a cold glare, tapping his foot up and down. Maybe he knows? Even if he does, he says nothing.

"So, my dears," Freya says, "what are your talents?"

Zeno twiddles his thumbs, either too shy or too uninterested to speak. Judging from what I've seen, I'm going to guess that he's too shy.

"I'm good with electricity," I say. "Specifically circuitry. I like to work on wiring and other such things, along with ranged weapons. And I have a mean uppercut." I look over at Zeno and give him a wink. That middle part about ranged weapons was a lie, but he won't know that at least until training. And by then, he'll be so attached to me that it won't matter.

Nodding, my mentor then turns to Zeno. "And you?"

He bobs his head up and down, almost nervously, then looks out the window. "I like to make things."

"Really? Like what, hun?"

He shrugs. "Stuff. Inventions." His eyes widen, and a giggle escapes from him. "Like this one time, I made a little remote controlled newspaper retriever. You know, since dogs are so rare." With another giggle, he adds, "The robot fell over a lot. And the rope broke once or twice."

I nod, pretending to enjoy the story, but all I can think about is how useful my little ally is going to be.

Oh so very useful, indeed.

* * *

**Relly Jay, District Six**

* * *

I bring the cup of hot cocoa to my lips and take another sip, savoring the chocolaty goodness. I have never seen so many sweets in my entire life, and I feel like I'm in Heaven. Or somewhere similar.

Across from me sits my district partner, Alder, staring out the window, his blank face reflected in the glass. He's really quiet and kind of depressing, and I feel like he's judging me whenever he looks in my general direction. He already called me hyperactive and ditzy, so I'm not going to risk any more conversations with this rain cloud. But I'll consider myself lucky that he already agreed to be my ally in the arena, because even though I don't particularly look forward to hanging around him, a moody and pessimistic ally is better than no ally at all.

"So," my mentor says, stopping beside me, her icy blue eyes boring a hole through my forehead. "You're Relly Jay?"

"Uh-huh," I reply, placing my hot cocoa beside me on the dark wooden table. We've been on the train for nearly two hours, and my mentor finally introduces herself. "And your name is…?"

"Nyx Hale." The soft gray cushion sighs as she takes a seat beside me. "Tell me, Relly: have you ever watched the Hunger Games? Do you have _any_ idea what you're in for?"

Judging by the way she says that, I doubt she thinks very much of me. "No, not really. I don't like violence."

Nyx laughs, more out of derision than amusement. "Kid, you aren't going to last very long with that kind of attitude." She looks down at me with a sharp, cold smile. "I highly suggest you correct that fluffy little thought process of yours. That is, if you intend on ever seeing District Six again." Shaking her head, she turns around to talk to the other mentor, a burly woman by the name of Bradie Redman, effectively cutting me out of the conversation.

Well, then. I guess I could talk to Alder. But I don't think he likes to talk.

So I look out the window instead, and watch the countryside fly by. We passed by District Ten about an hour ago, and are currently riding through a very large mountain range. Brown crags of earth jut up into the sky like the ridges of some terrible beast, topped with white patches of snow from last winter, and on both sides of the train tracks, we are surrounded by meadows full of yellow, white, and blue wildflowers. Way off in the distance, in a huge valley surrounded by magnificent mountains, there sits a teeming metropolis, the windows of the skyscrapers glinting in the sunlight.

"Wow," I say, unable to hide the awe in my voice.

"That, my dear," says Nyx, "is the Capitol." She speaks with a slight haughtiness, as if she's proud to know such a fact.

The trees and the mountains rush by, and the Capitol draws nearer and nearer with every minute that passes. I press my face against the glass, amazed by the sheer size of the metropolitan sprawl. Hovercraft zoom through the air above the glassy city, looking like giant flies as they buzz from building to building. It's funny to imagine those ridiculously-dressed Capitolites, with their puffy clothes and their big hair, all stuffed into the hovercraft like pigs in a pen.

I let out an involuntary giggle at the thought, which draws Nyx's attention.

With a stony expression, she chides, "I assure you, Relly, there is nothing to laugh about."

"Au contraire, mon mentor," I say giddily. There's a lot to laugh about. I mean, sure, the Hunger Games won't be very fun, but at least I get to see the Capitol before my time's up. I am one of the few people who has ever gotten the chance to leave District Six, let alone see the place where all of our escorts come from. Truth be told, I'd always thought that they were just oddly-dressed monsters that hatched from eggs and came around once a year to legally kidnap two children. Apparently that theory was wrong.

I suppose, in away, that I should be thankful for the opportunity to tour the Capitol. I get the feeling that it's one of those once-in-a-lifetime things.

* * *

**Trance Berrill, District One**

* * *

As we round the last bend, I feel the train's brakes smoothly take effect. The water in my glass begins to tilt sideways, but as our momentum runs out, the water slowly returns to a level position.

I start clucking my tongue, drumming my fingers on the shiny armrests and fidgeting in my seat. Even though the District One tributes have the shortest distance to travel, I hate having to stay in the same spot for too long. It makes me antsy.

"Quit it," Gloss says, eying me sourly. He only won two years ago, so even though he's my mentor, he's around the same age as I am. You'd think that would make him more sympathetic, but then you'd be wrong. He's kind of an arrogant jerk.

"But I'm bored," I say, bouncing up and down in the seat.

He sighs and turns forward, narrowing his gray blue eyes. "I honestly don't care. We're literally five minutes away from the Capitol, so sit down, shut up, and stay still."

I freeze, doing my best to stay absolutely still. Hardly even a breath escapes from me.

Gloss gives me a disapproving glare and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean like that."

Letting out a huge sigh, I say, "Oh. Well, then."

He simply glowers out the window, now refusing to make eye contact with me. I shrug, and lean back in the super plush chair, wondering how much longer we really have. When I glimpsed the Capitol only a few minutes ago, it looked like we were no more than ten miles away.

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

I wait a couple more seconds. "Are we there yet?"

This time, my district partner, a mean girl named Alpha, answers my question. "No, you fool. The conductor will tell us when we've arrived." She turns around in her chair and gives me an unsettling grin. "Until then, if you don't keep your mouth shut, I will cut out your tongue with the bluntest instrument I can find, then shove it down your throat. Alright?"

The entire cabin is silent for a few seconds. Uneasily, I look back and forth between our two mentors, but neither Gloss nor Cashmere say anything in my defense. My mouth twitches with a surprised frown, and I almost open my mouth to speak.

"You think I'm kidding," Alpha says, crossing her legs and glaring at me haughtily. "Please, test me. I like the color of blood."

_Well._

I shut my mouth again, this time for good. Maybe I should listen to her.

As we all marinate in the awkwardness, the train begins to really slow down, and I bounce up and down in my chair excitedly. We're almost there!

"Alpha Revere and Trance Berrill, welcome to the Capitol."

The brakes finally triumph over the momentum, and we come to a complete stop. Jumping up from the chair, I run down the aisle, taking a tiny shortbread circle as I go, then arrive at a stop in front of the sliding doors. I toss the cookie in my mouth and rub my hands together. This should be interesting.

Gloss, Cashmere, and Alpha all walk up alongside me as a great hiss sounds from the base of the train.

The doors click, and with a magnificent _WHOOSH_ they disappear into the wall of the cabin, revealing the twirling spires of the shining city. I let out an involuntary gasp at the sheer beauty of it all.

This is going to be fun.

* * *

**The lyrics are from the song _Long Black Train_ by Josh Turner. **

**So, for Haymitch, I just decided to use the book's description rather than the movie, because I always liked book-Haymitch more, anyways.  
**

**And yeah, I know that Enobaria won the Sixty-Second Hunger Games, but I needed to keep Gloss and Cashmere within the correct age range. **

**As for Wiress and Beetee, well, they got a break this year. Yay for a successful District Three with more than two past victors.  
**

**Psh, who needs canon.  
**

**I know, I know, late update, sorry. That's life.**


	16. Meet the Stylists

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Lead Stylist Darius Marshik**

* * *

I stare at the ten swaths of fabric, which vary from a shell pink to a deep burgundy to a dark, almost electric purple. Some have a scaly texture, some are simply a waterfall of ruffles, and some are little more than plain silk. None of them are even remotely capable of matching each other, but I trust Tabitha's ability to make it work.

"Take this to Tabitha. She should be in the District Four wing," I say, dumping the cloth into a nearby assistant's hands. He looks at me oddly, almost dumbfounded, and I point down the hallway. "She's not getting any younger. Move it!" Are all of my new assistants this year nothing more than slack-jawed idiots?

Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn to see Oscar, holding out a thin booklet. "Your playbook, sir."

I sigh and place my hands on his shoulders. "You, my friend, are a lifesaver." I take the booklet from him and set off towards the main hall, holding it above my head. "An absolute lifesaver!"

Flipping through the pages, I find the roster of tributes and their assigned stylists. In all, there are twenty four stylists, twenty three of whom have already signed in with me. Only one is still unaccounted for.

"Kassandra!" I cry, peeling my gaze away from the paper in search of the missing stylist. "Has anyone seen Kassandra Miyaka?" All around me, everyone shakes their heads. "Has no one seen the stylist for the District Six female?" Again, I only get an ocean of blank faces. I stop walking and let my arm fall to my side. "So you're telling me that, literally minutes before the tributes arrive, one of my stylists chooses to ditch work?"

A woman with fiery red hair, otherwise known as Mayline, who I believe will be working with the female from district twelve, tentatively raises her hand. "I have her number, if you want me to call?"

"That would be awesome," I say, tapping my leather boots on the bright blue marbled flooring. I don't have time for this. "Let me know whether or not she picks up. If she answers, tell her to get her ass down to the dressing rooms, ASAP. If she doesn't pick up, then she's fired."

As I set off down the hall, she nods to me and takes out her phone. "Thank you, Mayline."

I can't believe that Kassandra would choose today, of all days, to play hooky. She's probably off partying with her boyfriend, among various other unsavory activities. It wouldn't be the first time she chose pleasure over responsibility, being the ignorant slut she is. Truth be told, her fashion skills are extraordinary, but beyond fabric and makeup and cosmetics, she isn't good for much. But, skills or no skills, she is missing the biggest opportunity of her entire life to showcase her talent, and what good is talent if no one else knows about it?

"Fernando!" I yell, keeping my voice in a low register in order to conceal my annoyance. "Fernando Rodriguez!"

The other District Six stylist comes flying out of his allotted room, his electric blue hair fluttering around his face. "Yes, sir!" He comes to a halt right in front of me. "What is it, sir?"

I shake my head angrily, waving my playbook back and forth like a fan. "Francisco, I really hate to do this to you, but Kassandra flaked, and I doubt she's coming at all tonight!" Lowering my voice, I look at him and my face falls. "Sorry, Francisco. I'm not angry at you." Smoothing out my short hair, I heave a huge sigh. "Her prep team is here, but she isn't. So, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, sir."

I love it when my people are actually dedicated to their work. "Do you think you can handle both of the District Six tributes tonight? You'll have control over both your prep team and Kassandra's prep team, and you'll have to make the executive decisions. Can I trust you to do that?"

Francisco's eyes widen. "Are you sure?"

I nod. "Absolutely. Unless Kassandra walks through those doors in the next fifteen minutes," I say, pointing to the ornate double doors at the front of the building, "I will need you to be on your game tonight, pulling double duty."

With a curt nod, Francisco says, "Yes, I think I can do that, sir."

Breathing a sigh of relief, I respond, "Thank you, Francisco. I trust you'll do fine."

He gives another nod, but as he turns away, I see his face fall into a mask of fear. I hope I haven't asked too much of him.

* * *

**Flavia Reeves, District Seven Female**

* * *

I stand awkwardly in the empty room, drumming my fingers against my leg. The overly-dressed woman who led me here has since disappeared, leaving me all alone in this foreign place, and I really wish I knew what they were going to do to me. I've heard horror stories of the Capitol Clean-Up, as they call it, but there's a huge difference between a word-of-mouth story and actual experience.

Rocking back on my heels, I spot a frilly set of shelves on the opposite wall, absolutely full of expensive dyes, perfumes, creams, and anything else the stylists use to completely alter the tributes' appearances. I walk over and take one of the little heart-shaped jars, twist off the cap, and sniff the lavender goop on the inside. The scent is so strong, I slam the cap back on and start choking, trying in vain to dispel the overwhelmingly noxious odor.

Someone snatches the jar out of my hand and places it on the shelf next to me. "Honey, please don't touch the expensive beauty products. You district yokels don't know how to safely handle such finery." He looks at me sternly, his full lips pinched into an overdramatic pout. His features then soften, and he gives a half-hearted smile. "My name is Ciro, and I am your Stylist." Stepping back, he gives me a cursory look, resting his chin on his hands contemplatively. What am I, meat at the butcher shop? I hate it when people, especially men, look at me that way. "You are definitely more of a winter. That's good, since I like working with bold colors." His voice has a certain feminine quality that most Capitolite men seem to have, and it really bugs me.

Ciro then claps his hands, and shouts, "Christian! Aria! Felina! Chop chop!"

The trio come running out of a side room, each of them wearing a matching blue jacket. "Yes, sir?"

"Get her cleaned up. Hair, skin, nails, the usual. Have her ready in two hours, I should have the outfit done my then." As Ciro walks out of the room, he pauses in the doorway, then turns to look back at us. "And please, remember to-"

His request is cut off by a furious scream from one room over.

"DON'T TOUCH ME, CAPITOL BITCH!" Something shatters, and I hear two high-pitched screams.

Sprinting into the hallway, I catch a glimpse of a woman, presumably the stylist, lying on the tiled floor, holding her hands in front of her face and whimpering in fear. In front of her, standing in the threshold of his styling room, Linden holds a sharp tool threateningly above his head. "I will end you!"

Beside me, Ciro tenses up, probably not entirely sure what to do. "Flavia," he says hurriedly, "Go back to the room. Now." He pushes me back into the doorway, then does the near-unthinkable: he wraps his arm around Linden's, in order to protect the female stylist. "Linden, stop it. You don't want to do this. Save it for the Games."

For a second, it almost looks like Linden will stab my stylist. But, with an enraged growl, he drops the sharp piece of metal. "I fucking hate it when women touch me."

Ciro pats Linden's shoulder and takes a step back. "I got that, I got that. Darius, our Lead Stylist, can fix that in no time, really." He leans down and helps the other stylist off of her feet, whispering something to her, making sure she's okay. Odd. I didn't think Ciro, being a man and all, would be so kind. She whispers something back, and Ciro nods.

"Christian!" he shouts, calling for the only male member of my prep team. "You're going to help Linden. Flavia, in exchange, you now have Emi."

A diminutive blonde comes slinking out of the other room, careful to avoid Linden, and hurries into my room with frightened eyes. She must be Emi.

Christian sheds his blue jacket, his face a mask of worry, and tentatively crosses into the other room, probably afraid to work with an obvious psychopath. I don't blame him. I hated the guy even before I knew he was nuts.

Another man, dressed in loose black leather, comes storming down the hallway. "What is the meaning of this?" To my knowledge, he is the Lead Stylist.

The victim tries to answer, but she can't get any words out, so Ciro answers for her.

"Carpathia can't be assigned to Linden."

The Lead Stylist shifts his weight, crossing his arms. "And why not?"

"Linden tried to kill her because she is a woman."

After a pregnant pause, he mirthlessly answers, "Fantastic." He looks at Ciro, then at me. "Ciro, get back to work. I'll go see if Juno is willing to switch." Shaking his head in anger, he marches down the hallway, muttering something about insane peasants.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see one of my preppers hesitantly smiling at me. "Come on, dear. That's enough excitement for one day."

Nodding, I follow her down a short hallway to another room, where I'm sure they will do any number of horrible things to me, all in the name of beauty.

That may have been enough excitement, but I know that the Games will be a thousand times worse. After all, in the Games, Ciro won't be there to stop the other tributes from killing me.

* * *

**Pagnotta Millet, District Nine Female**

* * *

Lying on a table, naked, with three strange people staring at me in all of my nude glory isn't exactly what I would call my cup of tea. This is indecent! I shouldn't even be here. I just want my daddy to come and take me home, and bring me back to where I belong.

"She just has so much hair," one of the preppers says, delicately running her fingers across my scalp. "There are so many possibilities!"

"Yes, she does have a lot of hair," another one says, his voice judging and arrogant, "But it's in all the wrong places. I mean, this girl is only what, fourteen? And yet, she has legs like a werewolf!"

Aww, these people are mean. All I want to do is lash out, maybe hit one of them, let them know what I feel and to tell them to shut up about my appearance. But, as mommy always says, be nice to other people, even if they're rude themselves. Always be the better person.

The fingers leave my scalp. "She won't have werewolf legs for very much longer, don't worry."

I look over to see the twig-thin lady rummaging around on one of the shelves, grabbing a jar of yellowish stuff and a few sheets of semi-transparent fabric. She leans over my left leg and pours out a good-sized dollop of the goop, which is surprisingly warm, then spreads it around my shin with a flat, white, wand-type thing. It feels weird. The yellowish stuff looks and feels almost like warm honey, but it smells like lavender. I wonder if it normally smells like that, or if they added fragrance to it.  
The lady then lays out one of the strips of fabric on top of the warmish honey stuff, smoothing it out with her spidery fingers, then grabs a small corner of the fabric and looks to me. "Take a deep breath, Pags."

That's what these people decided to call me. Pags. It sounds like pugs and bags mixed together. Pug bags.

Anyways, I obey, and breathe deeply through my nose.

Before I can react, the lady rips off the fabric, sending the heat of a thousand bee stings through my flesh. I let out a shrill shriek, consumed with pain, and instinctively punch the nearest prepper in the stomach.

He steps back, holding his hands up defensively. "Sorry, Pags. We have to make you look pretty."

"I don't want to be pretty!" I scream, beating my fists against the cushioned table. "Pretty hurts!"

Of all things, my prep teams starts _clapping_. "Good job, dear. You've learned the most important lesson of all: beauty is pain. And you need to be beautiful, especially if you want to impress the Capitol and get all of those sponsors, right?"

Frowning, I cross my arms in anger. "No, no I do not. I want to go home."

Smoothing out my hair in a patronizing way, the anorexically thin prepper smiles at me with a certain amount of pity. "Oh, my dear. You have to much to learn. Home is where you cannot go, at least not yet. You have to win if you ever want to go home."

Without warning, my lower lip begins to quiver, and I lean back on the table, no longer wanting to hurt my prepper. He's just doing his job. That doesn't give me a right to hit him.

And the lady is right. The only way I will ever get home is by winning, and, realistically speaking, what are my chances? Zero? Next to zero?

Then again, I could win. Fourteen-year-olds have come out triumphant before. But that's only happened a couple times, and all of those fourteen-year-olds had immense skills or superior intellects. Do I have either of those?

"I'm going to wax your legs again, Pags. Are you okay with that?"

Slowly I nod, unwilling to speak again. I might as well comply with them, since I pretty much have no other choice.

The prepper repeats the slathering process, then smooths out the fabric once again. "Take a deep breath."

Again, I do. And again, the pain is completely unbearable.

* * *

**Alpha Revere, District One Female**

* * *

The tub of citrus-scented water soothes my burning skin. I allow my entire body to sink beneath the surface, and my burning eyebrows and legs are instantly relieved, though still sore after all of the incessant waxing and plucking. Seriously, I just want the carnage to begin. For now, though, I am perfectly happy to enjoy my time in the smelly pool of expensive water.

As soon as I resurface, one of the ditzy idiots taps me on the shoulder, and with a clawed hand she drags me out of the water. "Hurry up, Alpha! You still need to get your hair washed and everything!"

Oh, goody, goody. More wasted time.

She directs me to a table and instructs me to lie down. I grudgingly comply.

Suddenly, three pairs of hands are all over me, not in an inappropriate way, but wiping all manner of creams across my skin, each one with a vastly different purpose. One makes my skin tingle, one takes away the pain, yet another makes me smell amazing, and there are a couple more with unimaginable functions. Perhaps to even out my skin tone? Make me glow? Make those sponsors trip all over themselves to support me?

At this point, anything is possible.

Once they're done with the topical things, they order me to move up on the table, so that just my hair hangs over the edge. One of the preppers pulls a shower head down from the ceiling and rinses my hair with non-fragrant, normal water, while another prepper sets to work with the shampoo. They repeat this process a couple of times, then comes the conditioner, and the scent reminds me of butterscotch, but not quite.

Then, they stand me up and blow-dry my hair, the heat rushing across my shoulders and down my back in waves of hot air. It feels glorious.

Finally, the portly woman hobbles over and hands me a golden bra and black underwear. "Put these on, Hun."

I hold them both in my hands and stare at them with a certain disdain. There's a reason why my undergarments are colored and not just a plain white, probably because I'll be showing them off for the chariot rides. Great. Porno Games, more like. Eh. Whatever. Anything to get sponsors, right?

After I get into the clothes, my stylist returns from her temporary absence, holding two different outfits, one in each hand. They both look ridiculous.

She holds one up to my skin, then the other. "Hmm."

After some more pointlessly careful deliberation, she hands one of the outfits off to a member of the prep team. The outfit that she kept looks like an intricate flower, with swathes of creamy white silk running down the front and sides. Gold and black accents run along all of the fabric edges, and yes, my bra will apparently be one of them. Lovely. The entire back of the dress is made up of silver metal plating, each piece interlocking like the thorax of a beetle.

"This isn't intimidating enough," I say crisply. "I won't look scary, I'll look like an orchid. Orchids don't kill things."

My stylist waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, my dear, do not underestimate me as such. I am perfectly aware of your appearance, both in this room and out in the Chariots." She hands me the dress, then leans down and, from behind the table, pulls up a huge metallic headpiece. It looks like a pair of golden ram's horns. "See? It will look lovely. Vicious, and lovely."

I roll my eyes, drumming my fingers on the table. "So, what, I'm supposed to be a goat? Goats aren't scary. The worst thing they can do is gnaw on your clothing."

"Oh, shut up. Goats can be scary! They can eat tin cans, you know."

_Oh, please._ "Give me a break. You've never even seen a goat, have you?"

Checking to see if the headdress fits, she places it on my head, then smiles and nods to herself. Turning her attention back to me, she tuts and waggles her fingers. "No, but neither have you, District One. Not exactly the land of farmers, are you?"

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. Why couldn't I at least get claws? Or spikes? Anything would be better than a can-eating goat.

* * *

**Cascade Zephyr, District Eleven Male**

* * *

My preppers squeal too much.

"OOOOOOH! This will be just MARVELOUS!"

"Aaaah!"

"How adorable!"

"He's such a doll!"

Someone giggles. "I just LOVE creams, don't you?" They proceed to smooth a dollop of light pink lotion across my arms and shoulders. I've never experienced such pure humiliation as I am experiencing at the hands of these buffoons, and I shudder at the thought of what they will force me to wear out in public. To think that my brother suffered the same embarrassment before they sent him off to die. It infuriates me.

"Hold out your hand, please," one of the annoying women requests, and I unwillingly comply. She sprays some perfume onto the back of my palm, and before I can react, a fireball engulfs my flesh with a horrifying whoom.

I shout, waving my hand about my head in pure terror, and the prepper takes a startled step backward. Looking at the bottle, she says, "Oops."

One of the other more attentive preppers immediately grabs my hand and yanks me towards the sink. Thrusting the fire underneath the water, she pats my arm and gives me a blindingly white, yet sheepish smile. "Sorry about that, dearie. Nothing more than a bad chemical reaction." After a few moments, she pulls my hand back out of the water and inspects my skin. "No harm done, it seems. Does it hurt?"

I shake my head. Luckily, I still have both hands. Flexing my fingers with annoyance, I say, "I thought you guys are supposed to know what you're doing?"

The guilty prepper sulks to the back of the room and hangs her head with shame. "It was an accident, okay?" She looks like a lost puppy.

"Accident or not, you could have burnt my hand off!" I clench my fist for emphasis. "Be more careful. Your next tribute may not be so lucky."

Waving her hands around her head, she cries, "Okay, I get it!"

An unfamiliar voice replies, "Get what?"

A thin, scarecrow-like man walks in the door, his ridiculous hair floating around his face in a white halo. "Nerezza, are you tormenting the tributes again?"

She stamps her foot indignantly. "No!" Sheepishly, she adds, "Well, not on purpose."

My stylist scoffs. "Just as I expected. You unhelpful rouge." Turning to the other preppers, he asks, "Are you finished?"

The women step back and nod. "Yes, sir. He's all yours."

"Oh, excellent." He shoos all of the preppers out of the room, leaving us alone together. "Now, my wonderfully blank canvas, how shall the art evolve upon you? Shall it be rapturous? Complex? Shall it demonstrate your potential as victor?"

_Shall it display a general lack of artistic talent? Check. Shall it humiliate me in front of all Panem? Check. Shall it scare away all of my potential sponsors? Check. Shall it be uncomfortable and ugly and probably give me a rash? Check._ Oh, how I want to tell my stylist these things. But I like having my ears attached to my skull, so I keep my mouth shut.

"I think we'll go for a more… colorful approach. Hold out your hands, please."

"Last time I did that, someone set me on fire."

My stylist narrows his eyes. "Huh. Well, do it anyways."

Reluctantly, I hold up my arms in a T-shape, and my stylist slaps three very, very large orange slices onto my shoulder. "I think that'll be great. Don't you? Fruit is so wonderfully colorful."

I hate the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Hey, guys and gals.**

**Long time, no update. Illness, finals, projects, etc. You get the picture.**

**Hope you had fun reading this chapter.**

**Next up: Chariot Rides.**


	17. Chariot Rides

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.  
**

* * *

**Stellar Andrews, District Two Female**

* * *

I struggle with the peacock feathers in my headdress, trying to properly arrange them before I go out to get scrutinized by all of Panem. This is my moment to shine, and I will not let loose feathers ruin my opportunity to show the sponsors, and my parents, how good my chances really are.

"Stop touching them!" my stylist screeches, swatting my hand away. "They were fine, and now you ruined them!"

Pulling my hands back, I let out a scoff of annoyance and cross my arms. Fine. If he wants to act high and mighty, I'm not going to stop him.

While he rearranges my costume, I watch the preppers clean up the tiny room, their crazy hair and clothes flying around in a flurry of color. One of the girls had swan wings surgically added to her back, which I think is nuts, but I suppose they look nice, at least. If not totally creepy.

"Alright," my stylist finally says, rubbing his hands together. "That should hold. Unless you touch it, in which case it will fall apart, so keep your grubby hands off!"

Sighing, I roll my eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"Excuse me?!"

"I got it, okay?" I say, crossing my arms and looking at him icily. "Just, go do whatever it is you stylists do during the chariot rides."

He squeezes his eyes shut, then waves me off dismissively. "Whatever. Just remember to touch your necklace the _second_ the audience can see you. Do you understand?"

"I understand, oh Dear Leader."

With an overly sensitive sneer, he turns on his heels and dramatically marches away through one of the many doors in the room, hands held high above his head, deep red braids swinging with each exaggerated step. I swear, he has more sass than all the other stylists put together. He desperately needs to check his diva.

As he leaves, a soft bell rings three times, indicating that the tributes should start boarding the chariots. Now is my time to shine.

One of the preppers hurries me through one of the doorways and ushers me down a hallway, out into a long, gray, dimly lit holding room. Running down the center of the room are exactly twelve chariots, each one glinting dully under the weak light, and I see that my district partner has already found ours. Two white horses stand in front of each cart, stamping the ground and snorting, though ours look particularly lively and liable to bolt. I wonder how long it took to train all of the horses to follow the proper path?

I step up onto the cart, delicately avoiding the sharp silver edges, and carefully drag my huge, ruffled, shimmering train of fabric, which closely resembles a peacock's tail.

Beside me, my district partner steps up into the chariot, a stern look upon his handsome face.

"Come on," I say, elbowing him. "Liven up a little. You're going to be on national television!"

He sighs. "That's the problem."

"What?" I demand, crossing my glossy arms. "This isn't a problem, it's awesome!"

The chariot jolts forward, and Necali grabs the overhead bar for support. Even in the low light, I can see his skin is a little off-color. He swallows hard, obviously trying to compose himself. "I just don't like crowds, is all."

I sigh. My district partner doesn't know how to have fun.

I discreetly throw a glance behind my shoulder, and catch sight of the District Three tributes. Neither of them look too happy, but then again, they were both reaped. Plus, their little circuit-board togas can't possibly compare to my regal and stunning appearance. They both must be jealous. After all, the crowd's eyes will be upon me, in all of my glory, while they, the boring and bland little fools they are, will fade into the background like reaped tributes should.

In front of us, the District One chariot nears the arching doorway, through which I catch a glimpse of the roaring crowd, going completely insane the second they see the girl, who is meant to look like a ram, and the boy, who is meant to resemble some sort of fancy goat. Apparently there's a difference between rams a goats?

My fingers brush against my thin necklace, like my stylist commanded, and to my surprise, the entire costume bursts into a life of color. Glowing blue dots completely cover the upper portion of the dress, creating a galaxy of light across my chest, shoulders, and arms, which taper off towards the bottom of the dress. In my peripheral vision, I see the edges of my headdress glowing bright green, white, and blue, and I let out a thrilled gasp. My stylist didn't disappoint.

Necali's costume has a similar peacock design, and through the dots of light on his outfit are exquisite, though they don't compare to mine.

I face forward, and as we pull out into the crowd's line of vision, I give a beautiful, full smile.

Do you see me, mother? Do you see me, father?

Do you see how beautiful I am?

Can you see how far I've come?

* * *

**Nemo Dedecus, District Four Male**

* * *

Far ahead of Waverly and me, the costumes of the District Two tributes shine brightly, the girl waving giddily at the crowd while the boy hardly looks behind him. He does occasionally wave, though, which I guess is something.

Why can't the District Four stylists create such inventive designs? Using light is an intelligent concept, and not only is it easy to apply, it will probably attract a number of sponsors for the District Two tributes. But, no. Waverly and I are stuck wearing form-fitting fish-suits made of silvery metal scales, topped off with metallic fins at our elbows and at the base of our necks. The seashells and seaweed really top it off, though, adding to the sheer ridiculousness of our costumes.

In short, I am not loving life right now.

Forcing myself to smile, I wave at the crowd and wink at a group of females off to my left. They scream awfully loud, pulling at their hair and reaching out towards me, tears streaming down their overly-made up faces. Good, good, fan girls are good. They're the most likely to support me, or at least beg their rich daddies to help me in some way. I leave them with a half-smirk, then move on to a different part of the crowd, where an elderly man sits with a young woman. Smiling brightly, I give a slight nod, then focus on a lone middle-aged woman, whom I send a modest grin. To my surprise, she smiles back.

"Having fun yet?" Waverly asks, her voice edged with a certain sharpness that I don't particularly like.

Through gritted, smiling teeth, I answer, "What's not to love? They're just going to watch us fight to the death in four days. Obviously their cheers are genuine."

"Watch _you_ fight to the death, maybe," she replies, her words even sharper. I look over at her, but she faces forward, refusing to make eye contact. "But I plan on winning. And nothing, not even you, will stop me."

Narrowing my eyes, I feel an involuntary, cynical smirk tug at the corners of my lips. "Well, aren't you confident?"

"Only because I'm better than you," she says, finally looking at me, her eyes cold and searching. "When I say that I plan on winning, I mean that I _will_ win."

"Good for you," I say, waving to no one in particular. Sitting up on the highest balcony, the President looks down upon us all with a harsh, calculating glare. I'd love to know what's going through his mind, though the prospect of knowing his thoughts is frightening, as well. After all, he ultimately decides who lives and who dies.

"Well," my district partner continues, tossing her dark hair behind her shoulder, "it's just obvious. I am victor material, and you," she says, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper, "you are nothing but a hapless bastard who volunteered for the Hunger Games, if only to prove that you're worthy of calling yourself a human being."

An electric shock runs through my veins, and I actively force myself to keep smiling and waving, refusing to let the audience catch so much as a glimpse of my vulnerability. It must have simply been an insult. She can't possibly know. My own personal hell couldn't have followed me to the Capitol. "I'm sorry, please clarify that last statement, Waverly."

She grins coldly. "Oh, sweet, innocent little Nemo. Did you really think that, just by leaving your home, you'd magically escape yourself? After all, you are quite well-known in District Four. Probably more well-known than you'd like to pretend."

No, no no no. We didn't even live in the same _neighborhood_. How could she ever know? Out of the corner of my eye, I see her grin grow wider in response to my silence. She knows that she hit a nerve.

"Yes," I answer, careful to keep the blade in my voice hidden until the perfect moment to strike. "That may be true. Maybe I did volunteer to escape that hellhole." The hairs on the nape of my neck stand up as I speak the words aloud, for the first time verbally acknowledging my own motivation for entering the Games. It's liberating, in a way. "But at least I volunteered for myself. You only volunteered because of your cousin, so you could get out from under her shadow."

Waverly goes rigid, and in my peripheral vision, I watch a blank mask fall over her face, thought she quickly resumes her pattern of beaming at the audience, blowing kisses, waving, and repeating the process.

"I am not a good enemy to have, Dedecus," she snarls through a beautiful smile, barely loud enough for me to hear. I wonder if the sponsor's can read our lips? I hope they don't see us sowing the seeds of our own destruction, all the while keeping chipper smiles on out faces as we wave to the adulating crowds. Probably wouldn't be good for the money.

I let out a low sigh, and wink at another woman in the audience. She swoons, falling into the arms of a nearby friend. "I am sure of it," I murmur. "And I can say the same to you, Capri."

But do I really want her as an enemy?

First day in the Capitol, and I've already found an arch nemesis, from my own district, no less. I'm just making good decisions all over the place. At this rate, I'll be dead by sundown.

* * *

**Wade Odinshoot, District Eight Male**

* * *

Someone reaches down from the stands, holding a camera in their hands, trying to get the perfect shot of Erizelda and me. What's the point, though? They're going to see both of us ten thousand times on television. What are pictures worth?

I wave at the audience, like my mentor told me to, but I can't manage a smile. My heart gallops inside of my chest, rattling my ribcage and sending waves of nausea down through my stomach. Even a simple smile would be asking too much.

What am I even doing here?

Erizelda, on the other hand, looks like she's having the time of her life, blowing kisses and dipping her shoulders seductively, winking at half of the men in the audience and running her fingers through her hair. Her stylist specifically left her hair down so she could use it in supposedly attractive ways. I mean, Erizelda is pretty, but she's a slut. Though I never knew her too well back at home, her reputation does precede her, and boy, is it a reputation. A bad reputation, at that. If the audience only knew, then maybe they wouldn't be so quick to return her air kisses. But this is the Capitol, so maybe her slutty behavior adds to her appeal. With these weird people, I have absolutely no idea.

As for myself, well, I just don't want to be here. I would rather spend this time trying to learn as much as I can about the potential arena, about plants and animals, about tying knots, about survival skills, anything to keep me alive in the Games. Or better yet, forego all of this Hunger Games bull crap and go back home to District Eight. Looking around at the audience and staring at the cameras, I realize that millions of people are scrutinizing my every move, which doesn't exactly inspire confidence. I fight to keep a straight face. I am young, so I desperately need to impress the sponsors if I have any chance of surviving the arena.

But alongside the sponsors, Wren is also watching me right now. Vibia, too. They're probably afraid for me, and I am definitely afraid for myself. I've never been much of a crowd pleaser, and my inability to smile probably doesn't add to my appeal. Perhaps I can build off of that image; I am the stoic one. The only reason I'm not smiling is because I am calm, and simply have nothing to smile about. Yes, that must be my angle.

As I mentally solidify my public image, without warning, Erizelda grabs my shoulder and plants a huge kiss on my cheek, prompting the entire crowd to go completely nuts. What, is an unromantic kiss really that special?

_Don't wipe it off, _I command myself. That would make me look immature in front of the sponsors. _Don't wipe it off, don't wipe it off, don't wipe it off. Please don't leave a kissy mark, because I can't wipe it off._

I look up at her smiling face, and she gives me a suggestive wink.

It takes every iota of self-control I have to force my lips into what I hope is a convincing smile. Through gritted teeth, I hiss, "Stop it, Erizelda."

She scoffs and keeps waving. "Well, I had to help you somehow. You're just floundering pathetically, and to be honest, it's painful to watch."

"At least I'm not trying to seduce half of the crowd."

"Yeah, well," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder, "sex sells. Or at least, sex sells better than whatever brooding 'I hate everything now leave me alone' attitude you've got going on. So lighten up, buttercup, or your stay in the arena will be much briefer than you probably intend."

I keep waving mechanically, but my heart isn't in it, because she's right. I do need to lighten up. The Capitolites don't like glum or uninteresting tributes. They prefer vibrant sluts, like Erizelda. But I don't know how to be anyone other than myself.

* * *

**Idrial Coven, District Ten Female**

* * *

The chariot comes to a complete halt directly in front of the President's balcony. The stern, intimidating man raises his right hand, and the entire berserk audience falls silent.

"So, here we have this year's tributes," he says, his voice echoing powerfully throughout the domed stadium. "And what a group they are." His granite-like gaze rests upon me, and even though it's only for a moment, the breath catches in my throat and I shift uncomfortably in my leather dress. If there ever were a person who could look through me and see my soul, it would be Coriolanus Snow. "I'm _absolutely_ sure they won't disappoint." With a razor-edged grin, he sits back down and waves the procession along. He gives off a much more brutal vibe in person than he does on the television, as if he'd gladly rip out my throat with his bare hands, even though he's powerful enough to have someone else do it for him. I immediately decide that I don't like him. Not that I liked him before, but now I'm absolutely certain.

Our horses strain against their harnesses, and with a destabilizing start, the cart continues down the pathway, into the shadows of the end-room.

I see the tributes from the first nine districts all crammed up at the back corner, out of the audience's view. The girl from nine stumbles out of her chariot, her motion limited by the skinny corn stalk dress that wraps entirely around her legs, all the way down to her ankles. The dried corn leaves extend over her arms, and judging by the way she looks down at the crinkled fabric, she doesn't like the costume one bit.

Carefully, I lower myself to the cold stone floor, picking up the edges of my leather dress to keep them from catching on the sharp silver guardrail.

"That was bearable," I say, looking over at Birch, hoping for a reaction. He doesn't even acknowledge my existence. Narrowing my eyes, I add, "At least he audience was supportive." Still, he refuses to look in my general direction. Bastard. I'm pretty, I'm nice, I'm trying my best to interest him, and what do I get? Nothing.

A voice beside me replies, "Yes, the audience was pretty good, wasn't it?"

I turn to see the District Twelve girl, dressed in an uncomfortable-looking outfit of roughly cut coal and rocks, all brought together in an oddly elegant dress. Though I see no malice in her bright green eyes, I can't be too careful with unknown people like this girl. Still, she could be a friend. Maybe even an ally.

"Yeah," I say cautiously. "They were." Giving her a cursory glance, I decide that she's worth the effort. "My name is Idrial," I say, holding out my hand.

Returning the gesture, the District Twelve girl says, "Nice to meet you, Idrial. I'm Charcoal."

I snort. "What kind of name is that?"

"I don't know," she says, shrugging nervously. "My mom apparently liked it. I mean, if you don't like it, you can call me something else."

Quickly, I say, "No, no. Your name is fine. It's weird, is all. And just because it's weird doesn't mean it's bad." My thoughts go back to my own mind, and I look up at the ceiling, thinking. "Actually, I guess I prefer weird things. They make life more interesting."

She giggles, though I can still detect a hint of discomfort in her voice. Her eyes dart to the side, and for a moment she's distracted by whatever she sees. "Look," she finally says, pointing to the opposite end of the room.

I turn my gaze to where she's pointing, and sure enough, our stylists and their prep teams come hurrying across the cold concrete, descending upon the tributes like locusts, guiding us all back to the styling rooms by force.

"Bye, Charcoal," I call over my shoulder, waving to her. "See you later."

She smiles back, that small action cementing my determination to make her my ally. "Bye."

My preppers drag me back to the suffocating room and immediately set to work disassembling the ridiculous costume, the removal process only taking a small fraction of the time that it took to put the stupid thing on. I hold out my arms, and gasp when one of the preppers loosens my corset. Holiness of holiness, I can breathe again.

I let out a hiss of pain when one of the preppers removes my outfit incorrectly and gives me a shallow cut across my arm. "Ouch."

"I am so sorry, miss," the tiny prepper says, his eyes wide. "Let me fix that."

"What are you-" I begin, but lose my words when he returns with a tiny golden vial. He pours a drop onto his middle finger and dabs it across the cut. The relief is immediate. Slowly, but surely, the skin closes back up, leaving only a tiny pink line, as if it were nothing but a zipper.

Surprised, I say, "How does that even work?"

The prepper winks. "Capitol magic, my dear."

Oh, is that it?

Strange that they can't use that "Capitol magic" to feed the starving districts, or to heal the dying tributes. But those who wield the "Capitol magic" know best, don't they?

* * *

**President Snow**

* * *

"Well," Icarus says, barely suppressing a smile, "that was definitely _interesting._"

For once, I agree with my appointed Head Gamemaker. "There have certainly been worse years, but this year seemed particularly prone to… excessive grandeur."

Leaning back in his chair, Icarus closes his eyes and lets out a pent-up sigh. "My favorite had to be District Four. It wasn't even their costume, though that nearly brought my Lead Stylist to tears. Tears of shame, mind you." Despite his impressive imagination, Icarus has never been able to tell when the people around him no longer wish to hear about his irrelevant personal opinions. "But no, the icing on the cake had to be their terse little conversation. It's a good thing the sponsors couldn't tell what they were saying, because good grief, they already have a burning hatred for each other and it's only day one. I almost died laughing."

I arch an eyebrow. "You can lip read?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Aw, yeah." Then, assuming a grandiose air, he adds, "It's one of my many talents."

He certainly is full of surprises, I'll give him that.

Unfortunately for him, I hate surprises. And I did not call him here to talk about his talents.

"Evelyn," I call.

A tall, older woman appears in the doorway, wearing the trademark white shirt and black slacks of an Avox, her sleek black hair tied up in a tight bun. However, this woman, per my gracious orders, still retains the ability to speak. After all, as with Icarus, I hate to see a beautiful mind go to waste. She is no exception.

"Yes, sir?" she asks, her voice small, yet confident as always.

I think for a moment. "Single malt scotch on the rocks, with a touch of almond liqueur."

I look to Icarus expectantly, but he simply raises his hand and shakes his head. "Nothing for me. Thank you, Evelyn."

She gives a slight bow and disappears into the storeroom.

"So, Icarus," I say, looking out across the now-empty stands, full of garbage and lost feathers and a couple of hats. My people are such slobs. "Did any of the tributes particularly stand out?"

He shrugs. "I don't think I have enough information on any of them to form a reliable conclusion. The careers all look determined, at least. Except for the District One boy. He looked like a Space Cadet, if I've ever seen one. And as for the outer districts, they look like frightened kids trying to pretend that they're ready to go out into an arena and kill each other." He says that last bit with a touch of bitter sarcasm, an unacceptable reluctance that no Gamemaker should possess.

Evelyn returns with my alcohol, I nod in thanks, and she disappears as quickly as she appeared.

Stirring the beverage, I take a small sip, enjoying the fire as it rushes down to my icy core. Wouldn't it be interesting if the fiery scotch thawed out my soul? That would be a sight.

Setting the glass on the table beside me, I interlace my fingers and look over at Icarus, careful to keep my gaze biting and condemning. "Icarus, do you know why I selected you as Head Gamemaker?"

This question obviously takes him off-guard. Furrowing his brow, he answers, "I.. No, not really, Mr. President."

I nod slowly. "That's to be expected. Your gifts lie more in the realm of imagination and creativity than they do in logic and inductive reasoning. Perfectly understandable." I give him a grin, purposefully interlaced with poison. I am the cat, and he is the unwitting canary. Poor, ignorant boy. "Well, first and foremost, your work last year greatly impressed me. You have quite the creative talent."

Nodding slowly, Icarus narrows his eyes. "Thank you, sir. I guessed that much."

"As I assumed you would. However, the second reason is just as important as the first. In past years, as I'm sure you know, many of the Gamemakers have been… less than humane. I chose them because I knew they could handle the brutal and emotionally taxing job of constructing a murder machine. I chose them because they didn't care for human life. Unfortunately, this lack of regard generally extended to their friends, their family, even themselves. The majority of my past Gamemakers simply didn't care about anything other than bloodshed. Now you, on the other hand, possess a healthy self-preservation instinct, do you not?"

Uncomfortably, he answers, "Yes, sir, I believe I do."

"And you have friends, people whom you care about, do you not?"

"I do."

"And you have family, people whom you love, do you not?"

This time, he takes a few seconds to answer. When he does, the reluctance is evident in his voice. "I do."

"In fact, you have a sister, don't you?"

Icarus's eyes go wide, though he is quick to recover. "Yes."

With a smile, I continue. "Dear little Kaylana Castillo. You two are close, aren't you? Most siblings are, at least at your age." His face falls, and I know that he at least grasps my message. However, I want to bury the message into his insolent heart. His hesitation must be purged. "Oh, and congratulations on her engagement. I'm sure that she and her future husband will be quite happy together, living in their quaint little apartment at 9343 Trullo Avenue." I uphold my smile, and ask, "Do you understand me, Icarus?"

The boy's pallid face conveys a better understanding than I could have hoped for. He gives a shallow nod. "Yes, I understand."

"Excellent." I take another sip of my scotch. "In that case, you may leave."

He quickly stands, his face seemingly made of stone, and marches through the doorway without so much as a goodbye.

Good. That means he is afraid.

Rosebushes must be guided, sometimes trimmed, if they are ever to reach their full potential and produce the most beautiful blooms possible. Some, like Evelyn and Icarus, need more guidance than others, but in the end they all obey my will, whether they wish to or not.

* * *

**Well, things are starting to heat up, are they not?**

**Next up: Settling In.**


	18. Settling In

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Zeno Atticus, District Three Male**

* * *

I look up at the towering ceiling in awe. My eyes trace the white marble pillars, which reach up the walls and curve like the ribs of a monster. Drake, my escort, looks back to us and raises his arms with a shark-like grin. "Welcome, dear children, to the Capitol!"

My heart sinks as I realize that we're in the belly of the beast, teeth and all.

_Based on empirical data, I have less than a one percent chance of survival._ The thought rises up to the forefront of my mind before I can squelch it. A shiver runs up my spine, and I grip Rumor's hand even tighter. She pats my hair down and murmurs something, but I don't quite catch the meaning, still unable to get over the complete extravagance of this hotel. If this one building looks this nice, what is the rest of the Capitol like?

Then, more angrily, I wonder why they can't spare a tiny fraction of this wealth for the districts? The furnishings in this lobby alone could feed a hundred children for a year, if not more. And they call _us_ animals?

We walk down a warmly-lit tile walkway. Off to our left is a bar, stuffed with a ton of fancy food, mostly fruit and baked goods, though I spy a plate of cut vegetables and a mountain of beef jerky. Maybe this place won't be so bad, after all. Beyond the food bar is a row of windows, which offer a view into the training facility, though it is currently not in use.

Drake pauses in the middle of the hallway and looks back around at us. "Okay, lady and gentleman, I have a couple of rules for you. Number one: Don't break anything. Any unnecessary expenses that you incur during your time in the Capitol will come directly out of District Three's monthly stipend. Got it?" Rumor and I nod. "Good. Number two: All of the food around here is totally available for you to eat, assuming that no one else has called it. If you see a tray, and you aren't allergic to any of the ingredients, you can dive right in. Number three: If you have any problems, like, _at all_, you either tell me, or you use one of the red phones on the walls. There will be a red phone in each of your rooms, by the way. It will direct you to an operator, who will help you deal with the problem. Sound good?" Again, we nod.

He claps his hand together. "Excellent. Now, as you can see, we are currently on the ground floor, standing in the main lobby. Pretty much everything will take place on this floor." He points to a gigantic, sunlit, carpeted area that looks more like a family game room than an addition to the lobby, and asks, "You see the Tower?"

I cross to the edge of the tiled walkway in order to get a glimpse of the massive opening in the ceiling, only to see that the tower extends up another twelve stories. The massive curving stairwell seems to rise up into forever. This place it absolutely huge. "Yes, I see it."

"Technically, the floor above this one counts at the first floor," Drake says, shrugging. "They did that in order to keep with the 'each tribute will stay on the floor that corresponds to their district number' theme. But anyways, you guys will be staying in the third floor of the Tower, which we will go to see in a moment. You have a schedule posted in your room that details every single important event that you must attend within the next three days. For training, dinner, breakfast, _everything_, you will report to the designated area at the designated time, or risk a disadvantage in the arena. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good." He turns to look at the stairwell, his red and black hair shifting in the process, despite the inordinate amount of hair get and product that he applied during the ride here. "Well, now that that's taken care of, let's go take a look at your room. You get separate rooms, of course, so I suppose it's more like a flat than anything. Or a fancy apartment."

I shake my head and fall back into step with Rumor. My brothers and I have always slept in the same room together, so I'm not entirely used to the concept of privacy, although I get the feeling that I'll like the idea. Rumor probably will appreciate individual rooms more than I will, anyways.

As we begin our ascent up the stairs, I catch sight of the District Eight boy, about three stories above and on the opposite side of the spiral stairwell, as he and his district partner walk up to their rooms. We make eye contact, and to my surprise, he gives me a half-hearted smile before looking away.

Maybe this place will be more bearable than I'd thought.

* * *

**Mariah Cassel, District Five Female**

* * *

"This is your room," Flex says, gesturing to the immaculately white space, the monochrome only broken by one of the red phones and a brilliant bouquet of pink, red, orange, and purple flowers that sits on the entryway table. He grins at me with his spiky teeth, and I fight to suppress a whimper of fear. My escort scares me beyond any possible explanation. He's like the entire concept of the Hunger Games, condensed into one person. One brutal, intimidating person. "If you have any needs or concerns, just use the red phone. This includes room service and medical emergencies. Do you have any questions?"

I shake my head slowly, still absorbing the beauty of this room. "No, no questions. Thank you, Flex."

He nods, then walks back out into the hallway and closes the door behind him, leaving Dominic and me alone together.

"So," my district partner says, obviously trying to strike up a conversation, "am I the only one who's terrified by our escort?"

I smirk. "Nope. I am right there with you."

He smiles at me, but I see something slithering underneath his mask, something that frightens me to my very core, and it takes all I have to keep from gasping out loud. It's something I can't really explain, something I didn't sense on the train. I just… can't trust him.

"You know what?" I say, stretching my hands above my head in a fake yawn. "That train ride and the chariots really wiped me out. I think I'm just going to go to bed."

Outside, the sun has already set, so my excuse is valid. Well, valid enough. It's barely even nine O'clock. Then again, the Capitol virtually signed my death certificate today, and I endured a ridiculous, televised beauty pageant, so perhaps I do have a good reason to be tired.

Dominic narrows his eyes, but accepts my excuse without question. "Right. Well, get some rest. I hope you sleep well."

I nod, and practically run to my individual room, delicately shutting the door behind me. I let out a sigh, and fall onto the springy white bed. The sheets smell divine. Writhing around on the feathery soft fabric, I wonder just how long I have to live. Three days, at least. How much can I accomplish in that time? _Enough,_ I assure myself, even though I don't truly believe it. How can I condense my entire life into only a few short hours? It's… impossible.

Even so, it will have to do. I roll off of my bed and pick up my red phone.

On the other end, an effeminate man answers, "Hello?"

"Hi," I say, drumming my fingers against the white wall. "My name is-"

"Mariah Cassel, District Five. I know who you are. How may I help you?"

I furrow my brow and let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, well." I pause, thinking. I want to know everything about him. He may be the last friend I ever make. "May I ask your name?"

This question seems to amuse him, because a laughing quality enters his voice. "Kris Delaplane, but all my friends call me Jersey."

Nodding to myself, I say, "Then I will call you Jersey."

"That's fine with me. So, Miss Mariah, what do you need?"

I play with the bottom of my shirt, afraid to hear the answer to my question. "I… If I write a letter to my family, will it be delivered to them?"

A long silence comes from the other end, and for a moment I fear that he's hung up on me. My fears are dispelled when he answers, "Records confirm the possibility. It's happened before."

'_Possibility' isn't good enough._ "I need you to promise me," I say, my voice unexpectedly breaking on the last note. Taking a moment to collect myself, I lean my head against the wall. "Please, I just… I need to know that my loved ones will get my letters."

"Miss Mariah-"

"Please, Jersey." My voice drops to a whisper. "Please. I am going to die. Knowing this has given me a new perspective, something I didn't have during my goodbyes. I have some very important things to say, and I need to let them know."

He sighs. "I will do my best, Miss. That is the most I can promise you."

Nodding to myself, I answer, "That is all I can ask of you, Jersey." More quietly, I add, "Thank you."

"You are welcome, Mariah."

I look out the window at the light-polluted night sky. "Will you be the one who always answers my phone?"

On the other end, I hear him laugh. "Noon to nine at night, every day."

"Okay. In that case, good night, Jersey."

His voice softens. "Good night, Miss Mariah."

I replace the phone on the receiver and cross my arms, thinking.

Rushing over to the dresser, I rifle through the multitude of drawers, searching desperately for a pen and paper, which I finally find in the upper left-hand cabinet. I lay the white sheet out on the tabletop, and draw the chair up close.

For about five minutes I stare at the blank paper, tapping my pen against the edge of the desk. My mother, Theo, Sierra. There are so many things I want to tell them, so many things I want to clear away before I permanently lose the opportunity to do so. I want them to forgive me, and I want to forgive them.

I know who I will write to first.

_Father- _

I pause. Words won't repair our relationship, I know that. But maybe they can dull the edges, if only a little bit.

_The decisions I've made, I know that you think I only made them to spite you. I know that you hate me because I was born different. Different in a way that goes against everything you ever believed. I am truly sorry. I am lesbian, and I know that hurts you. If I had the choice, I would much rather have been born normal. But I've never had the choice. Please, believe me. _

_I love you. And I know that, despite everything you've done and said, you love me too…_

* * *

**Erizelda Morrison, District Eight Female**

* * *

The huge penthouse that they gave to Wade and me consists of one lobby, one fully-stocked kitchen, five full bathrooms, and five master bedrooms - one for each of the tributes, one for each of the mentors, and one for the escort. I was absolutely delighted to find my closet full of beautiful Capitol clothing, though I haven't yet had time to change my outfit.

I passed a couple of hot Capitolites on my way to the hotel, but I haven't really seen anyone who stands out. They're all the same: glittery, girly, and very, very sassy. Which can be fun, of course, but they just aren't my type. Perhaps I just need to search some more? I could acquaint myself with the hotel in the process, so it's a win-win situation.

I peek out of the door, and creep over to the railing. Because Wade and I are from District Eight, our accommodations take up the entire eighth floor of the tower, so there's a lot of space between me and the ground. Lots of floors to explore, too.

Far, far down on the ground floor, I hear people laughing and shouting. I know for a fact that my future allies are down there, somewhere. After all, they just won't be able to say no.

I run to the stairwell and use the banister to swing myself around, taking each step with eager anticipation, passing a couple of the outer-district tributes on my way down. So many opportunities, so little time.

On the ground floor, there are so many facilities that it takes about forty-five minutes to explore them all, and that's not including the pool on the roof of the hotel. Oddly, I don't see any of the other tributes in the first couple of rooms, though it's probably because they're all upstairs settling in. I suppose that the people I passed on the stairs were the only people left down here. How boring.

However, in the very last room, designated the Art Studio, I spot the District Two boy leaning over an easel, deeply involved in whatever he's drawing. A Career, just ripe for the picking? And hot, too? I can hardly believe my luck. This is an opportunity I cannot miss.

Creeping over, I am careful to avoid the huge gurgling fountain that takes up literally half of the room. When his drawing comes into view, I am genuinely surprised by his talent, especially with respect to the proportions and shading. He carves a final stroke of charcoal across the page, then leans back to admire his work.

Before I can say anything, he picks up a cup of red paint and, with a deep yell, he splashes the ugly color across his meticulous monochromatic work.

"Nice waste of artwork," I say.

He immediately spins around to look at me, his green eyes wide with both anger and surprise. "What the hell do you want?"

I shrug. "Just looking around." Nodding to the drenched easel, I add, "It's a shame to waste your talent like that."

Shifting his unnerving glare from me to the drawing, he says, "That wasn't art."

"Oh, really? Who's in the picture?"

He shakes his head. "No one special."

"No, really. Who was it?"

Turning to me, he practically spits, "If you really want to know so bad, it's a picture of my father. There's nothing artistic about this piece of crap," he says, gesturing to the easel. "Alright? He's sick. Nothing made in his _honor_ is worth keeping."

I raise an eyebrow. "Not on very good terms, huh?"

He smirks mirthlessly. "You have no idea."

Narrowing my eyes, I take a step closer. "I don't even know your name, District Two. Mind gracing me with the knowledge?"

His smirk grows into a knowing smile, a million things obviously going through his mind, and he answers with, "Necali. Necali Reinerston." Cocking his head, he gives me a sidelong stare. "And you, District Eight?" He's pretty smart. It seems he's caught on.

Then again, he's still a male.

I cross my arms and shift my weight, making sure to emphasize the movement in my hips. "Erizelda Morrison," I say, looking at him from underneath my eyelashes. "Though I prefer the name Zelda."

* * *

**Reith Payne, Avox**

* * *

I fold the white towels over the bar, making sure they're absolutely straight. I've already cleaned the toilet, the bathtub, the mirror, the windows, and the floor, emptied the trashcan, replaced the bed sheets, vacuumed, and placed the tributes' banquet and bouquet in the lobby.

It is my duty to beautify the Capitol, to cover up their hideous sins with pretty towels and nice perfumes. Oh, yes. I absolutely love serving the people who killed my father, brutalized my mother, and forced me into slavery after rendering me mute. Well, not entirely mute. The surgery didn't alter my vocal cords, so I can still hum. I can still scream.

It's just that I'm not allowed to make any noises whatsoever around guests. Or anyone else, for that matter. I am in a permanent cone of silence, and I hate every second of it.

But alas, I have a job to do, and if I don't do it properly, they'll gladly kill me and replace me with some other kid, so I can't spend too much time moping around.

Once I'm sure that the towels are straight, I turn back to grab the bucket of cleaning solution, but I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Sometimes I forget that I'm a person, an individual. I know that is the ultimate objective of the Capitol.

I lean close to the glass, placing my hands on the edges of the sink, and open my mouth, staring at the empty space where my tongue should be. I have my teeth, I have my gums, I have my lips. But I have no tongue, and I've forgotten what my voice sounds like. Perhaps the most important tool I had, and they took it from me. Brutally.

The memory crawls at the back of my mind, torturing me. Eight years ago, and I still remember with perfect clarity.

The kind of drug they use during the surgery, it isn't actually anesthesia. It's simply a paralyzing agent.

I felt everything.

The blade, the agony, the blood running down my throat. The overwhelming need to scream, and how my body wouldn't respond.

My grip around the sink tightens, and I feel a sudden urge to punch the mirror, shatter it, break everything that reminds me of the person they turned me into, the horror they put me through. But no, of course I do nothing. I am too weak.

The brown eyes in the mirror, do they even belong to me?

No. I belong to the Capitol. Eyes, hair, skin, blood, tongue. They own me completely.

Pushing off from the counter, I take a deep breath and let the air escape from me in one soft, fluid exhalation.

I turn around and pick up the bucket, dumping the sponge into the murky liquid, and step out into the main bedroom. To my horror, the tribute has already arrived. She, the girl from District Ten, notices me immediately.

"Oh," she says, setting a frilly orange shirt down on her bed. "I didn't see you there."

I avert my eyes, more out of habit than out of respect. Capitolites hate it when Avoxes make eye contact.

She walks closer and places her hand on her hip. "You can't speak, right?" Her eyes narrow. "They ripped out your tongue, didn't they?"

My silence answers for me.

"Poor boy." She closes the space between us with alarming speed and lightly places her hand on my chest. "I wish I could hear your voice."

_Can you please not?_ I think to myself, racking my mind for a legitimate excuse to leave. She's only what, fifteen? That means she's underage, for one, and for two, there's a ten-year age gap between us. Not to mention we just met and I barely even _looked at her_.

I sidestep, keeping my eyes averted, and attempt to pass her. Her hand grips onto my shoulder, catching me off-guard, and I struggle to keep the grey water from spilling onto the white carpet.

"Hey, I am talking to you!"

I wrench my shoulder free and continue out the door, hardly daring to look back at her. I've never been too good at dealing with brats.

"Fine!" she screeches, her voice jumping an octave. "Leave me! You're obviously an idiot, so I wouldn't want to be with you, anyways!"

Rolling my eyes, I shut the District Ten door behind me and lean against the white wood, relieved that I didn't have to do anything drastic. Crazy kids.

I bet Neela will get a kick out of this.

* * *

**Alder Haynes, District Six Male**

* * *

Leaning against the window, I look down at the brightly lit streets. Little colorful dots - people - scurry around on the cement so far, far below, like ants on a sand hill. What petty lives they lead. And they want me to give mine for their entertainment?

What a joke.

"Do you want to go down and see the others?" Relly asks, flouncing down next to me on the bed.

I sigh. No manners. "Did I ask you to come in?"

"No."

"Then why did you?"

She rolls over to face the ceiling. "Because you can't spend the entire time moping in your room, silly."

I narrow my eyes and shift my gaze to her. She looks so small, so breakable. Just one small snap, and she'd be gone. But I can't do that, because she's my ally.

_Ally._ What an arbitrary word. Do I care about her? No. Do I think she's useful? No. Do I want her to survive? Maybe. Her survival doesn't really concern me.

My attention shifts back to the people on the streets. None of them concern me, either. Even if I got to know them, I wouldn't care about them. In fact, I'd probably end up hating them, simply for being alive. It's something within me that I don't have the power to change.

Sometimes, I wish I cared.

I've tried. I've tried so many times that I've lost count.

I've tried for sixteen years, and after every attempt, more color leeches from my world, more words lose their meaning, more of my mind dissolves into something unrecognizable and worthless. I've given up.

I can't invest any more of myself in other people. I can't give any more of myself away. I am broken enough as it is. And this Game… I can't allow myself to care about Relly when she is so delicate, so likely to be shattered.

Someone knocks on the door, and I turn to see Nyx standing in the doorway. "Hey, you two. Got a minute?"

Beside me, Relly nods. I purposefully give no answer. Bradie, my own mentor, is probably off somewhere getting drunk. That's the only thing she's good at. I don't really know how she won her Game, over two and a half decades ago, because as of now she is totally useless.

Nyx shuffles over and takes a seat on the edge of my bed, placing a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. Apparently they decided to turn my room into our headquarters without my permission.

"Well, the chariot rides could have gone better," she says, folding her hands in front of her. "But you both did the best you could, so I'm proud of you." She smiles, and under the cold lights, for the first time, I realize just how many wrinkles she truly has despite her youth. To my recollection, she's only in her mid-twenties, yet she looks at least fifteen years older. The Hunger Games have done a number on her, drained years from her life. Do all victors suffer the same fate?

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" Relly asks, swinging her legs around the side of the bed, bringing herself into a sitting position.

Closing her eyes, Nyx offers a tiny smile. "You have to practice your talents and learn as many new skills as you possibly can, but above all else, you have to prove yourself. Not only to the other tributes, but to the Gamemakers, as well." She opens her eyes, and looks at us with an unsettlingly cold gaze. "They are always watching. Always, always watching. So keep your head low, but balance that out with spunk. Moderation and alertness are _everything_." With a wink, she adds, "And kick ass during the private training session. They like lightning, not moonbeams."

I nod and sprawl myself out across the bed as the girls continue talking about potential allies and reliable strategies. Their words means nothing to me.

All of this advice, all of these words, words, words, they mean nothing.

I don't have a chance.

I never did.

* * *

**Hey, look: a decently-timed update!**

**Let me know what you think! I really appreciate the feedback.**

**Oh, and, as a side-note: Clones make me sad. So sad, in fact, that I am inclined to kill them with my keyboard.**

**(I'm not referring to characters with similar personalities.)  
**

**Anywho, next up: Training Day One.  
**


	19. Frenemies

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**TRAINING DAY ONE**

* * *

**Glen Ackerman, District Nine Male**

* * *

I lean against the back wall, scoping out the training facility and any potential friends. After all, since my talent and good-looks obviously exceed every person in this room, I definitely have my choice of allies.

Running my hand through my hair, I saunter over to the weapon rack and take the scythe, which, admittedly, is the only one I know how to use. I could easily learn about any of the other weapons, of course, but for now I'll stick to what I know best.

The District Five girl walks up next to me, her blonde hair bouncing with each step, and I give her a wink. She smiles weakly, takes a blowgun from the display, and quickly hurries away.

I guess she just couldn't handle me. I overloaded her adoring mind.

Across the room I spot my district partner, Pagnotta, working on her rope-tying skills, obviously becoming frustrated in the process. We didn't speak much on the train, mostly because I was too busy enjoying all of the Capitol food, and we didn't get a chance to form an alliance. It would definitely help her out, having me as a protector.

I saunter over to the rope station and lean on the counter.

"So, Pagnotta," I say, raising an eyebrow and smiling at her. She looks up from her project with surprise. "I don't normally do this, but seeing as you're my district partner, I think that it would be rude of me not to ask. So, would you like to be allies?"

Narrowing her eyes, she sets the rope down. "I don't follow."

"Do you want to be my ally or not?"

"Oh, uh." Nervously playing with the rope, she gives a weak smile. "I just, uh-"

"Look, I know it's a big offer, and I know you may think yourself unworthy. But I really do think that we can help each other. Don't feel bad. It's a burden I am willing to shoulder."

Her eyes dart around the training room, before resting upon me. "I don't think that would be-"

"Don't think that, just because you're weaker than I am, that you won't be a good ally," I say, placing my hand on her shoulder. "We both have skills we can offer each other. I _want_ to be your ally."

Her nervous smile resurfaces, and she gives a tiny nod. "O-okay, Glen. I guess we could be-"

"Excellent!" I cry. "So, bloodbath strategy: I think that we should go for the best weapons we can find-"

"-Glen-"

"-and then maybe kill one or two Careers, because that would make it easier to win once the numbers start dwindling-"

"-Glen-"

"-and if there's food at the cornucopia, we definitely should get that, because I'm hungry all the time-"

"-Glen!" Pagnotta reaches up and grabs my arm, her green eyes wide with anxiety. Through gritted teeth, she says, "Don't discuss plans in the Training Room, where everyone can hear! Save it for when we're with our mentors!"

I think for a moment. Yeah, that idea is probably better. "Alright, fine. But it's an awesome plan, just so you know. We'll definitely win."

She gives me a confused frown. "Only one of us can win, Glen, whether or not your plan is awesome."

Waving her off, I say, "Oh, please. I accounted for that. See, we'll be so clever and so amazing that the Gamemakers will have to let us both live, because the audience will demand our survival. See, you need win the Capitolites' hearts and minds, so that they will let your entire alliance survive."

"Has that ever happened before?"

I shrug. "I don't think so," I say, then give her a wink. "But they've never seen anyone as cool or wonderful as me. Or you, of course. They'll have to let us live."

She turns her attention back to the rope in her hands. "I guess so. But I really don't think that's a good idea, to place your hope in something that may or may not happen, depending on how the Gamemakers feel on that particular day."

Taking a seat next to her at the table, I grab one of the unused ropes and tie it into a loop. "Oh, please, Pagnotta. Have a little faith."

* * *

**Taun Navarro, District Twelve Male**

* * *

There are a lot of stations to choose from. Haymitch told me and Charcoal to pay close attention to the stations offered, because they sometimes hint at what the arena will be like. But there are so many that I can't be entirely sure one way or the other. I need to choose a couple of skills to develop, though, because I am the youngest, and therefore unlikely to find an alliance, especially since Charcoal paired up with the girl from District Ten.

To my left, there's a small table with a lot of leaves, roots, berries, and various other plant parts sitting on the smooth stone surface. That's probably a good place to start.

"Hello," I say to the green-haired lady behind the counter. "Are these for plant identification?"

She gives a curt nod. "Yes, yes it is."

Looking at the wide array of greenery, I let out a sigh. "Can you give me a crash-course?"

She shakes her head. "No such thing. I can, however, give you some pointers." With gloved hands, she draws two three-leafed sprigs and one seven-leafed sprig from underneath the table. "Do you know what these are?"

I reach out to touch the leaves, but she pulls them away. "Don't touch," she says. "Obviously you don't know. See the shape of the leaves? See how shiny they are, because of the oil? There's no fuzz at all, and each type is perfectly flat. This one," she says, holding up the sprig with three thinner leaves, "is poison ivy. This one," she says, holding up the one with three ruffled leaves, "is poison oak. And this one," she continues, holding up the sprig with seven narrow leaves, "is poison sumac. All three can give you an awful rash, and if consumed, turn your day into a nightmare. This is because each excrete a specific oil called urushiol, which causes irritation and sensitivity when exposed to human flesh. However, unless you are seriously allergic, contact won't kill you. It's when you either eat the leaves or burn them and breathe in the smoke, that's when these plants become deadly. Never eat or burn any of these leaves, and never eat any of their flowers or berries, unless you intend on dying. Do you understand?" I nod. "Tell me what each leaf is," she commands.

I point at each plant. "Poison ivy, poison oak, poison sumac."

"Good job." She replaces the poisonous leaves under the table, carefully peels off her gloves, and picks up another three-leafed sprig from the table. "This, on the other hand, isn't poisonous at all. Do you know what it is?"

"No."

Running her fingers along the edge of the leaf, she says, "This belongs to a blackberry bush. You can tell because the leaves are serrated, unlike the smooth, rounded poison leaves, and they don't shine at all. Plus, the leaves are fuzzy, though I wouldn't suggest testing that unless you're absolutely sure. The same rules apply to raspberry bushes. Do you understand?"

Before I can respond, the boy from District Eight walks up alongside me, his eyes fixed on the huge selection of plants.

"Learn anything important?" he asks, and it takes a moment to realize that the question was directed at me.

I shrug. "I think so."

He gives me a deadpan stare, then shifts his focus to the green-haired lady. "Mind if I join?"

Shrugging, she gestures to me. "Not at all, though I am already a third of the way through a lesson. I don't wish to waste his time, so I will simply continue from when you arrived."

The boy nods. "Fair enough." He leans his elbows on the counter, and I want to talk to him, but I don't really know where to begin.

"What's your name?" I ask, a little sheepishly. I didn't really pay attention to the reaping recaps, and I was a little preoccupied during the chariot rides. "I don't want to call you District Eight."

He holds out his hand. "Wade Odinshoot. And you?"

I return the handshake. "Taun Navarro."

He pauses for a moment, eyes downcast, obviously thinking about something important. Then, with a lukewarm smile, he asks, "Do you have any allies?"

Again, I shrug. "Well, I thought I'd be with my district partner, but she went off with the girl from District Ten. So I guess no, I don't have any allies."

"Would you like to become allies?"

My eyes widen. "Are you sure? I mean, I'm the youngest of _everyone_."

Wade smiles, this time warmly. "That doesn't mean anything." Looking around the room, he adds, "You seem saner than the rest, and," he gestures to the plants, "you're obviously not an idiot."

I laugh. "I like to think I'm pretty smart."

"And you're a lot nicer than most of the people here." He crosses his arms and his face becomes serious once again. "So, what do you say, Taun? Allies?"

Unable to hide my smile, I reply, "Of course."

The green-haired lady snaps her fingers, drawing our attention. "Okay," she says, "Now that that's sorted out, can we get back to the lesson?"

Wade and I nod, turning our attention back to learning about plant identification.

I can hardly believe that someone asked me to be in an alliance. Things are already going better than I expected.

* * *

**Selene Briony, District Eleven Female**

* * *

So far, even after an hour and a half of "training", I haven't really accomplished anything significant. I've wandered between the more obscure training stations, one of which specializes in "Newtonian Mechanics", but I honestly have no idea how that could ever apply to the arena, so I figure that one's probably a red herring. The two tributes from District Three have spent a lot of time over there, though, which figures. They're supposed to be the geniuses, after all.

The man at the knife station stands with his overly-muscled arms crossed in front of his chest, looking very intimidating with his set jaw and angry gaze. I don't really want to talk to him, but he look like he knows what he's doing, so I force myself to walk over.

"Hello," I say.

His head swivels around to me, black eyes piercing and cold. "Hello."

I lean over the display of weapons, trying to think of an intelligent question. "Um, what kind of knife would you recommend for me?"

He gives me an evaluative glare, then walks over and wordlessly picks up a weapon that looks like a combination between brass knuckles and a machete. "This," he says, offering the handle to me, "is what's known as a trench knife. Take it, see what you think."

I delicately take it from him. It weighs about three pounds, surprisingly heavy considering its size. The handle has four holes for my fingers, and shines like polished bronze, while the actual foot-long blade shines ridiculously bright under the florescent lights. The weapon has a nice weight; it feels substantial, without weighing too much.

"It feels nice," I say, balancing the knife on my finger. "How effective is it?"

He smirks. "A weapon is a tool. Therefore, its uses extend only as far as the user's knowledge. Trench knives can be very effective, but only if you know how to wield them properly. You can test your skills on the dummy, over there." He points to a nearby tan cloth figure, propped up by a black metal pole in the center of a blue mat.

Hesitantly, I walk over, worried that other people might be watching, though when I take a look around, everyone else seems to be preoccupied with their own activities. Good.

The dummy stares at me sadly, as if it knows that I'm about to destroy it. I try to pretend that the dummy is a tribute, but that multiplies my fear by ten, so I stop pretending. This has to be done. I need a weapon, and this is the best way to determine what works for me. I crouch down slightly, turning to face the cloth figure sidelong, and hold up the knife in a defensive stance. Defensive means attentive. And attentive means alive.

I thrust the knife out at the dummy's chest then pull upwards, ripping the woven material open, and a shower of red rice pours out, indicating that the fake person is now dying. I sever the left shoulder with one quick swipe and completely remove the right arm with a repeated sawing action. Three quick jabs in the stomach, one long cut down the leg, and a final thrust through the heart. Not too different from using a sickle or extended saw blade, actually. As I watch the red grains accumulate on the ground, I feel a certain indescribable sense of satisfaction from seeing the damage I can inflict. That sense of satisfaction worries me, but I do need a weapon to defend myself, regardless of how conflicted or concerned I feel about it.

I stand up fully and look at the blade. It's not too difficult to use, it functions well enough as a defensive weapon. Yes, I think the trench knife will do just fine.

Nodding to the trainer, I say, "Thank you. I'll be back to practice with this later."

He gives and curt nod and places the weapon back on the rack.

In the meantime, I have other stations to explore.

I stop by the trap station, and fiddle around with one of the snap-traps for a few minutes, but I quickly lose interest. I spy the boy from District Ten working over at the cluster of booths that focus on general survival skills, and discreetly make my way over to him. I can't really say why he appeals to me. He doesn't seem particularly nice, he isn't all that attractive, and he doesn't look like he needs any help. I guess he just gives off a certain vibe; he has that abused, tortured look in his eyes that haunt so many people in District Eleven.

Picking up a small quart-sized water bottle, I follow the directions stapled to the table and add five drops of iodine. Apparently I have to wait thirty minutes before the water is safe to drink, so I figure that I might as well engage the District Ten male in conversation in my spare time.

"So," I start, unsure of how to continue. "That iodine is a little slow, isn't it?" He doesn't respond, so I use another tactic. "Your name is Birch, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm Selene."

He doesn't even look at me, but proceeds to snap a good-sized branch with seemingly no effort, and adds it to the small fire teepee he's about to light. "Good for you."

I drum my fingers on the table, a little annoyed by his blunt answers. "Do you miss home?"

"No. I don't have a home."

Raising an eyebrow, I open my mouth to ask a question, but he cuts me off with a sweep of his arm. "Look… Selene? Yeah. Stop bugging me. I don't want an alliance."

How did he figure me out so fast? "Why not?"

He heaves a sigh and turns his attention back to the would-be fire. "Because they're more trouble than they're worth."

I swivel around on the chair and cross my legs, bobbing my foot up and down. "Well, then find people who are worth it. Everyone has different skills to contribute."

Shaking his head, he throws a match down upon the dry wood, and the entire kindling teepee goes up in three seconds. He takes a step back and shakes his head. "It's not about skills. It's about backstabbers and liars, and all of the pain between day one of the arena and the second that the victor is crowned." Turning back to me, he sets his jaw and adds, "None of it is worth the betrayal that's bound to happen."

I lean back on the chair, taking in what he's said, and shift my gaze to meet his, wondering what happened to make him so bitter. "Well, I'm sorry that you believe that. Either way, I think you're a capable person. So," I say, jumping down from the stool, "best of luck to you."

He nods in appreciation, and I leave for the plant identification station.

Tomorrow, maybe, I'll approach him again to see if he's changed his mind. We'd be able to help each other. I just need to convince him first.

* * *

**Necali Reinerston, District Two Male**

* * *

The knives slide across each other in my hand, metal against metal.

I pull my right arm back, gauging the distance between me and the target and readjusting my stance. The breath leaves me in a quiet exhalation, and I narrow my eyes.

Stepping forward, I lean into the throw, and watch the small knife fly through the air, soaring fifteen feet and burying itself into the target, about half of an inch from the bulls-eye.

Next to me, Erizelda sighs. "Not too bad."

Smirking, I switch the bundle of projectiles to my right hand and use my left arm to throw. This time, the knife hits dead center.

She lets out a whistle of surprise. "So, you're left-handed?"

I simply smile. It took me six months to develop near-ambidexterity, but it's one of the best decisions I ever made. If I injure either of my arms, I'll still have the other to use. Not to mention that it's convenient.

"So, Zelda," I say, spinning one of the knives around by the loop. "Do you have any combat experience?"

She shakes her head. "No, not really."

I offer her one of the knives. "Try to hit the target."

"What?"

"Just do it."

Tentatively, she takes the handle and flips the blade over in her hand, not entirely sure what to do with it.

Rolling my eyes, I bring both of my feet together, and I swing my left arm up and down, keeping the rest of my body frozen. "Don't throw like this. It limits your aiming capabilities, and seriously reduces the force you can put behind the throw." I spread my feet shoulder-width apart and mimic another throw, pulling my arm back and letting my chest follow the proper line of motion. "This is good form. Make sure to keep the movement controlled. Now, if you want to add more power, take a step forward with your opposite foot, and lean into the throw."

I draw my left arm back, take a step forward with my right foot, and fling my arm forward, careful to keep the line of motion controlled. The knife hit's the bulls-eye, and the force of the throw buries the blade into the wall, all the way to the hilt. "And that's how it's done. You try."

She gives me a reluctant stare, but complies anyways. Carefully, she draws her arm back, twitching with hesitation. After a few seconds, she takes a step forward and lets the dagger fly. It hits the very edge of the white corner, far outside of the target.

At least she hit the paper.

"Not so bad for your first try," I say, genuinely surprised. "With some more practice, I think you'll be able to use them pretty well. I can help you later, but for now, I need to go round up the other Careers, so you'll have to practice on your own for a little while."

Practically stuttering with incredulity, she cries, "What? I-"

"You'll do fine. Just be conscious of your form and don't kill anyone."

I leave the disinclined Erizelda to her own devices and set off in search of the other Careers.

Maybe bringing the unskilled girl from an outer district into the Career pack isn't the best idea I've ever had, but I honestly don't care. I know for a fact that when my father sees Erizelda and me together and automatically assumes that we share a romantic relationship, he will flip his shit. Many times. And yeah, it may be a lie, but Erizelda is hot, and she does have some natural talent with the throwing knives. Either way, it's the best fake romance I've ever had.

I find Stellar panting beside the rope tower, and tap her on the shoulder before she can go for another run.

"What?" she demands, throwing her ponytail over her shoulder and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.

"I think it's time to round up everyone else."

"Oh?" she says, raising her eyebrows. We already agreed to an alliance on the train, so if all else fails, at least I'll have my district partner. "I thought you were too busy canoodling with your girlfriend to be building alliances."

I shrug and shake my head. Careful to keep my voice low, out of Erizelda's range of hearing, I say, "She's not my girlfriend."

"Uh huh. I doubt she'll be good for anything other than a meat-shield, but whatever, loverboy." She gives me a sarcastic smile. "Apparently you know best. Anyways, let's go."

My first priority is the guy from District One. I watched him mess around with the daggers and swords earlier, and though he appears completely unassuming, he has some mad combat skills.

He sits at the camouflage station, green and blue dots all over his forearms and face, and I watch him take a small dollop of blue paint and stick it in his mouth.

What is he, five?

"Hey," I say, drawing his attention. He even stares at me like a five-year-old would. "Is the paint good?"

He nods. "Blue flavor."

Inhaling deeply, I fight to suppress a smile. I definitely didn't expect him to be this weird. "Well, uh, District One-"

"My name is Trance."

"More like 'Stupid'," Stellar whispers, only loud enough for me to hear.

I elbow her in the side. "Shut up, Stellar." Turning back to the oddball, I ask, "Well, Trance, would you like to join the Career Pack?"

Casting his gaze to the ground, he takes a moment to think, then looks back up at me and nods. "Yes, yes I would. You're Necali, right?"

"Yes."

"Necali, before you go collecting everyone, I think that it would be a bad idea to bring my district partner into the Pack."

This takes me by surprise. "Why?"

He twiddles his thumbs, almost nervously. "She's threatened to kill me on the hour, every hour since we got on the train."

"That's definitely not... _ideal_," I say, remembering that the girl from District One didn't even volunteer. "But she does have prior training, I can tell that much. And I think that the benefits of including her in the alliance outweigh the costs."

Trance shrugs. "Your funeral." He then looks down at his colored hands. "Or mine."

* * *

**Isabelle Borne, Ranged Weapons Specialist**

* * *

It appears that the Career Pack has already solidified, seeing as the six or seven members have gathered around the knife station, apparently discussing something important. To my amusement, some stress fractures are already appearing in the tentative alliance. It's especially entertaining to watch the two District Four tributes quarrel. I don't know what happened between them, but damn, they behave like oil and water. She suggests something, he shuts her down. He suggests something, she ridicules him in front of the others. On and on it continues like this, and it's so hilariously painful to watch. Young people are so stupid.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see the District Five boy staring at me, his eyes wider than normal and his mouth twitching at the corners. It's more than a little creepy. "Do you have anything… serrated?"

"This is the ranged weapons station," I answer, irritated by his disturbing glare. "We don't have any serrated weapons, though we do have spears, tridents, throwing knives, javelins, bows and arrows, you name it."

"Perhaps… spears with serrated ends?"

I sigh and cross my arms. "No."

He lets out a hiss and shakes his head. "Fine. I guess I'll just use some poison." And with that, he trudges off towards the poison station, as if I sorely let him down. What's wrong with that kid?

I look back to the Career Corner, only to find that they've disbanded, all heading off in different directions. Predictably, the District Four tributes both walk to opposite sides of the training center, the girl marching towards the triple-story monkey bars, and the male heading straight for me.

He stops at the edge of the ranged weapon court, running both of his hands through his hair, stretching his face with frustration. "Please, please tell me that you have javelins. Please."

Laughing at his desperation, I respond, "Yes, yes I do. How many do you want?"

"Five." He pauses, then amends himself. "No, six."

"Alright." I pick six javelins off of the rack, passing each weapon to him one by one. "You do know how to use these, right?"

He nods, obviously distracted. "Yeah, I do." Testing the weight of each projectile, he nods, and finds the center of balance for each metal-tipped rod of polished wood. He draws his arm back, and, visibly fueled by anger, flings the weapon at the opposite wall. It strikes with serious force, about two inches off-center.

"You know that rivalries are bad, right?" I say, drawing his attention.

"What?"

"Give me some credit, kid. I've worked here for six years, and every year, there's that one pair of Careers who absolutely cannot stand each other, and put all of their efforts towards undermining the other, when that energy could have been directed at something much more productive. Like an alliance. Or maybe learning some skills."

He recoils from my words as if I just spouted a fountain of acid. "Hell, no." For a few moments he tries to think of something significant, but eventually settles with, "She started it."

"And you've been feeding it," I say, placing my hands on my hips. "It takes two to tango, District Four."

"Call me Nemo," he spits, turning his focus back to the target. "I don't want to be associated with that place."

I raise my arms in placation. "Fine, fine. _Nemo_. You seriously need to get over yourself and try working on your alliance. It takes energy to hate someone, it really does. And you know what? Those two Careers who hate each other are generally the ones who die first, since they're so preoccupied with their little feud that they don't see the danger or opportunities right in front of them."

Nemo narrows his eyes and sends me a sly look. "Are you even allowed to give me advice like this?"

I shrug. "It doesn't really matter. They won't catch me." My eyes pass between him and the District Four girl, who is all the way over at the cluster of gymnastic-oriented stations. "But you really do need to reconsider your relationship with your district partner. She is the most valuable asset you have, whether you believe me or not."

He shakes his head, a shadow passing over his eyes, and grips the javelin tighter. "No, she isn't. She made her choice, and I want nothing to do with her."

"Well," I say, raising an eyebrow, surprised by his spiteful tone. If he wants to fuel his own downfall, that's fine by me. "I guess we'll see."

* * *

**Sorry this wasn't a very action-oriented chapter. Still need to set up the alliances and showcase the tributes' talents and whatnot.**

**Let me know what you think!**


	20. Rise and Shine

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Hotel Day Two - Morning**

* * *

**Cascade Zephyr, District Eleven Male**

* * *

Between the hours of six and eleven in the morning, excluding breakfast hour, and before our training begins, the tributes are allowed to wander around the hotel virtually unaccompanied. Of course, we have rules to follow and a schedule to maintain, but for the most part, we're free.

I purposefully woke up early in order to explore the hotel without any interference from other tributes. Down in the lobby, though, I see a couple of kids from District Six, Seven, Eight, and Twelve, mostly talking and eating snacks before breakfast. I guess they're all early risers, but I'm not interested in speaking with any of them. Even if I wanted an alliance, which I don't, I wouldn't know where to begin. People confuse me.

Instead of sticking around the people I neither know nor care to know, I set off down one of the many ground-floor hallways, not entirely sure where I'm headed. Almost every hallway intersection contains a map of the hotel, so at least I won't get lost. Then again, every person from District Eleven could probably fit into this ridiculously huge building and there'd still be some room leftover, so maybe I will.

Rounding one of the corners, I spot a huge aquarium overhead, stocked with the most exotic fish I have ever seen. Then again, I haven't seen many fish, and those that lived in the rare streams and lakes of District Eleven tended to be brown and gray and boring. But these fish… they're like a swimming rainbow. Some look like ribbons, some look like flowers, others appear to be nothing more than bundles of waterlogged paper, and a few even glow a bright, beautiful blue. A living mat of dark green wriggles above me, passing by a bunch of light pink coral, while a tiny swarm of blue and red fish dart every which way in the wake of a spotted eel-thing. Truth be told, I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life, and I'm moved to a stunned silence.

Ironic to find such pretty things in such an ugly place.

Does District Four get to see this kind of stuff every day, since they live by the ocean?

I doubt it. After all, reality is much harsher than this posh little cocoon the Capitolites have spun around themselves. The food, the chandeliers, the Avoxes, hell, even the Hunger Games themselves are all perfect examples of their waste and extravagance. It's enough to make me sick.

Continuing down the aquarium hallway, I spot a silver platter full of tiny sandwich rolls, each one speared with a colorful toothpick. In a fit of annoyance, I flip the tray over onto the ground, oddly satisfied by the miniature scene of destruction, my own little act of rebellion.

But then I remember that it will be the Avoxes who clean up my mess, not the Capitolites themselves.

I sigh, my shoulders falling with irritation, and stare at the overturned plate. No, I will not pick it up. Avox or not, let them know that I was here. Let them know my anger.

The next time I see a platter of food sitting on one of those ridiculous carved tables, I figure that it's a better idea to eat the food, rather than waste it on the carpet. After all, where I'm going, there won't be many sandwich rolls just lying around. I need to fatten up, so to speak.

As I stuff the little smoked salmon sandwiches into my mouth, I come to the conclusion that we tributes are nothing more than lambs to the slaughter, all getting fattened up before we go out to get torn apart.

From one of the hallways, far ahead of me, the pretty District Two girl emerges from one of the left hallways. She looks around, her golden hair swinging, and her blue, vicious eyes rest upon me. With a wicked grin, she uses her dainty hand to pantomime a knife sliding across her throat, an obvious threat intended for me. She then waves, the movement childish and unassuming, and turns her back to me without so much as a word.

I watch her go, hair swinging with each movement, an ugly swagger in her step.

I suppose that we lambs are different.

Unlike the rest, we slaughter each other.

* * *

**Charcoal Paxton, District Twelve Female**

* * *

I suck in a deep breath and let myself float on the surface of the lukewarm water, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness. A soft breeze blows through the jasmine-bound pillars, carrying the delicious aroma over to me and Idrial. What a lovely way to spend a morning.

Technically, this is a rooftop pool, but there's a stone roof above us, held up by strong, widely-spaced pillars. It's meant to block the sunlight, and I think that it's an excellent addition. On the underside of the roof, I see a beautiful collection of carvings and paintings, mostly detailing the glorious subservience that the Districts show to the Capitol.

Wow. They even have propaganda out in the pool.

Part of the minimalistic, almost primitive painting shows a number of people out in fields, probably from District Nine, cutting gilded wheat, picking silver rice, and harvesting bronze barley, then offering the goods up to the obviously benevolent and kind Capitolites, who graciously accept the offerings and give District Nine a large sum of money and other goods in return. Like that ever happens. Another part of the painting shows a line of men and women tunneling through a large mountain and coming out the other side with armfuls of black rocks. Probably District Twelve. Much like District Nine, these people offer the rocks to the Capitol, and get a large amount of money, food, and material goods in turn.

Lies, lies, lies.

"Hey, Charcoal," Idrial says, her voice bringing me back to reality.

I let my legs and chest fall below the water, then turn to face her. "Yeah?"

"Do you know any offensive skills? Like, fighting or poisoning or trap making?"

I am forced to shake my head. Does she think that I can't fight? Will she go look for another ally if I can't live up to her expectations? "No… but I'm a fast learner. Really, I am."

Idrial lets out a giggle, amused by my overly-quick response. "You're too uptight, Charcoal. I was just asking because we spent almost all of yesterday learning about survival skills, and I think we should spend our time today learning about offensive skills, because I don't want to be caught defenseless in the arena. I mean, I know a little about poisons and things of that nature, but when it comes to weapons, I'm useless. So, you know, just a suggestion."

"I think that's a great idea," I say, my words genuine. We really do need to learn how to protect ourselves, not only from starvation and dehydration, but also from muttations, and the other tributes most of all. Today is a good a day as any to start learning.

With a nod, my ally pushes off from the side of the pool. "I'm glad you think so, Charcoal. I personally want to start at the poison station, but I'm game for whatever you have in mind."

Shrugging, I inhale again and pull my legs up to the surface of the water to continue floating. "Whatever you want, Idrial."

She sighs. "Okay, let me phrase it a different way: what do you want to learn today, Charcoal?"

"Um… whatever you-"

"No," she cuts in, obviously a little annoyed. "You have to want to do _something_. Something that doesn't pertain to me. So, tell me: what do _you_ want to do?"

I pause, unsure how to answer. I want to make her happy by doing the things she wants to do, but at the same time, she seems angry that I'm not choosing for myself. What do I do? Is there any right answer?

I finally decide to just tell her. "Well, actually, the field medical training station looked pretty interesting. And useful."

"See?" Idrial says. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? When I ask you what you want to do, I am referring to what you _actually_ want to do. Okay?"

Staring up at the stone ceiling, I nod, rippling the water around me. No one's ever really asked what _I_ want to do; they just assume that I want to do whatever they're doing. But I guess that's mostly my fault. After all, I've always been a people-pleaser, giving them what they want even if it means ignoring my own desires in the process. Most everyone back at home assumes that I have no opinion on anything, because, well, I don't. I agree with everyone else on everything because I need them to like me, and it upset all of my friends and family whenever I disagreed with them or asked questions, or even gave hint that I wasn't a total idiot.

But Idrial isn't like them. She didn't get mad at me for wanting or thinking something different than her. She even went so far as to _ask_ about what I wanted.

From somewhere down below, either from a lower part of the hotel or another building entirely, I hear a very faint piece of music, floating past me alongside the aroma of jasmine. I can't recognize the tune, even thought I've played every song known to District Twelve.

Yet, I'm not surprised.

The Capitol hoards everything else. Why not the music, too?

* * *

**Idrial Coven, District Ten Female**

* * *

Charcoal's insecurity gets old after a while, but at least she's trying to be nice. A lot of the other tributes here are pretty rude, especially towards me, which is totally unfair. Yesterday, I simply winked at the hot guy from District Seven, and he gave me a burning death glare in response. Plus, that one kid from District Six, I think his name is Alder, barely even looked up when I called his name, like I wasn't even there. Not to mention my own district partner, who seems to enjoy being a loner.

See how far that solitude gets you, Birch.

"Attention tributes," a gentle voice says over the hotel-wide intercom, startling me with its suddenness. "Breakfast will begin in thirty minutes. I repeat, breakfast will begin in thirty minutes."

Is it really nine O'clock already?

The morning sun barely peaks over the tops of the surrounding skyscrapers, and the shadows of the pillars fall across the pools in stripes. I wonder if the Capitolites live like this every day?

How selfish of them. I deserve to have this grand lifestyle just as much as any of them do. So does Charcoal. In fact, almost all of the tributes here deserve the Capitolites' wealth more than the Capitolites themselves. What kind of hardships have the Capitolites ever faced, other than deciding, 'Which district do we torture today?'

It's not fair. None of it is fair.

The lifeguard Avox claps her hands, indicating that Charcoal and I should hurry up. I sigh dramatically, unwilling to leave the warm water, but still hungry enough to want food. Oh, the dilemmas of temporary and limitless wealth.

I lift my hand out of the water, and the Avox wraps her hand around mine and strains herself to drag me out of the pool. _Too lazy to swim five feet to the stairs?_ I think to myself._ No problem. We have slaves for that._

The water streams down my arms and drips from my fingers, and I watch the liquid crystalline orbs fall, rainbows shimmering in the morning light, only to destroy themselves on the cement below. My wet hair sticks to my arms and shoulders, a much darker shade of blonde than normal.

Charcoal follows close behind me, though she chooses to take the pool stairs like a normal person.

We walk into the small lobby and take two towels off of the shelves, wrapping them around ourselves, before we step into separate body-sized blow-dryers. A burst of hot wind slams into my face and body, meant to evaporate any water that may have remained. It feels nice, though the wind hits me at odd, uncomfortable angles, and I quickly learn to keep my eyes closed, for fear of blindness. Luckily, the session only lasts about thirty seconds, but unfortunately, the hot gusts do nothing to help my hair, leaving it a dry, straw-like wreck. I sigh at my misfortune.

Charcoal and I split up on the spiraling stairwell, agreeing to meet outside of my room once we're made presentable.

On my way down, I stop at my room and change into "acceptable" clothing, though the Capitol and I seem to disagree on the precise definition of the word "acceptable". Fluffy pink dresses and tricked-out cardigans and pretentious hair bands are all well and good, but not quite my style. It takes some digging, but I find a pair of skinny jeans, white boots, a dark magenta tube top, and a black lace shirt-sweater-thing to go over it. Not the best fashion statement, but I could do worse.

When I walk back out into the hallway, even from the tenth floor of the tower, I can smell the delicious breakfast they have cooking for us: bacon, ham, hash browns, toast, fruit rolls. All of the things I rarely received back at home, the kind of things that my father saved for special occasions, like holidays or birthdays.

It floods me with a certain misplaced nostalgia, and a chill runs through me when I realize that I may never celebrate another holiday with my family. I may return home in a pine box. Or maybe I won't return home at all.

The thought is… harrowing.

Someone pokes my shoulder. Charcoal has appeared, her face alight with curiosity and anticipation. "You ready, Idrial?"

I manage a soft smile, and force myself to move into another train of thought. "Yeah. Breakfast awaits."

I take her hand and with half-feigned lightheartedness we go skipping down the spiral walkway.

Down, down, down we go.

Spiraling out of the sky.

* * *

**Dominic Monipule, District Five Male**

* * *

I territorially eye the girl from District Three, willing her to stop hovering over the plate of cinnamon buns. They are _mine_. Cinnamon buns are my favorite food on this entire table, therefore, I should get all of them. It doesn't even matter if I can eat all of them. I deserve to have them, fair and square, and that plan doesn't include the girl from District Three.

But I can't just take the platter. I'm not stupid. I know that would make me look greedy, and greed doesn't attract allies. So I have to improvise.

Walking up to her, holding one of the cinnamon buns and faking a look of disgust, I nudge her arm. She gives me an icy glare, but this doesn't deter me.

"I'd be careful of those if I were you," I say, chewing a piece of the pastry, holding my mouth as if I were gagging. "Seriously, they taste like dog shit."

"You would know," she says, pulling her reddish gold hair behind her ear and turning her attention back to the mountain of cinnamon and glaze.

Uh oh. Time for drastic measures.

I grudgingly dump the cinnamon bun in the garbage and spit out the remaining mouthful. "I'm not kidding. But if you want to gag, be my guest."

Even though I would have preferred to keep the cinnamon bun intact, it was necessary to keep what's mine. Sacrifice the few to save the many.

I walk away, careful to keep my pace even and agitated, and even more careful to avoid looking back at her. After all, I need to appear convincing.

I should have been an actor.

Taking a seat at my gray cafeteria table, I furtively glance up, watching, willing her to leave. I want my cinnamon buns.

She reaches out to take one, thinks better of it, and withdraws her hand, fingers curling in indecision. With a quick look around the cafeteria, in which she thankfully avoids my gaze, she picks up a piece of raspberry tart instead, and carries her plate across the room to her and her district partner. And with her departure, I know that my food is safe. Good.

The girl from District Ten and the girl from District Twelve linger around the food pile, picking out their breakfast from the vast variety of foodstuffs. District Twelve's delicate, slender hand hovers above the mound of pastries, my pastries, and for a moment I feel a burning rage towards her, the potential bun-stealer. They're all mine. Hands off, punk.

Luckily, she backs off, and, like the unconfident little lapdog she is, follows the District Ten girl to their table, and they seat themselves right behind me. I hear them jabber about Capitol fashion and the different types of food and the absolutely beautiful architecture of the city and the general lifestyle in their own districts. Picking at my fruit chunks, scrambled eggs, and buttered toast, I remain vigilant, careful to absorb all of their words, in case they say anything that I can use against them. Oh, the power granted to those who observe.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Ten says, and I hear her chair skid across the linoleum floor. "You want to accompany me?"

"No," Twelve responds, a slight edge in her voice. Fear, perhaps?

"Alright."

Ten crosses my field of vision, walking to the back of the cafeteria, where the bathrooms are. Which leaves Twelve vulnerable.

I carefully turn around, stealing a glance at the green-eyed girl. Her name is… her name. I rack my brain, dredging up the reapings, the chariot rides, any time where I may have seen or heard her name. Name, name, name. Her name is… Charcoal. Charcoal Paxton.

"Hey," I say, keeping my voice low and controlled. She looks at me warily, fearful. This will be too easy. "Your name is Charcoal, right?"

She stares at me for a moment, evaluating the threat I pose, and incorrectly concludes that I am harmless. With a curt nod, she says, "Yes. Why do you ask?"

I glance between her and the bathroom, putting up false conspiratorial airs in order to confuse and deceive her. I need to sow the seeds of doubt and fear now in order to reap the benefits of victory later. I need to take advantage of Charcoal's weaknesses, of which there are many. Namely, her insecurity.

"You know what she's been saying about you," I say sympathetically. "Don't you?"

Her face twists into something that closely resembles confusion, though it would also qualify as hurt. "What? What has she been saying about me?"

"Well, nothing serious," I assure her. "Just that you're annoying, and replaceable. But I mean, she said it nonchalantly, so she may have been joking. Yes, she probably was joking. Who says those kinds of things, anyways?"

Her freckled face drains of color, and I know I have done my job well. Fear and self-doubt are written all across her pretty little face.

"When did she say that?" Charcoal asks, her voice thin and brittle.

"Oh, Idrial talks about you whenever she gets the chance," I say, ice slowly carving into my words. "This morning, before you were awake, I ran into her in the hallway. She rolled her eyes and complained about you, something about weakness? And something else about… insecurity? But I doubt that. I think she was just making things up. Look at you! You seem strong enough. I'm sure that she was just pulling my leg."

Charcoal looks down at her hands, her thin fingers working over each other in random motion, obviously a nervous habit. I can hear her whispering under her breath, her lips twitching with a weak and breakable language. "No, not her," I hear Charcoal whisper. "Never her."

"Hey!" someone screams, their voice echoing across the wide, empty space between us. I turn to see Idrial storming towards me down the aisle between the tables, and I can't help but crack a smile upon seeing the ridiculous anger in her mascara-drowned eyes. "Back off, bitch!"

Oh, so I'm the bitch?

She swoops in and takes Charcoal by the arm, dragging her up to a standing position. "What did he say to you?" she demands, though she's careful to keep her voice calm and reassuring.

"That you called me weak and replaceable," Twelve answers, her voice wavering slightly, as if she half-expects me to have told the truth. Jeez, this girl is even more vulnerable than I'd thought. How delightful.

Idrial, upon hearing of my treachery, lets out a horrified cry. "You bastard!" she shrieks, physically pushing me back. "Swine! Stay away from my friend, or so help me, I won't wait for the arena to kill you!"

And with that, she and Charcoal take their half-eaten plates of food and storm off to some other part of the room, which is perfectly fine by me. So long as their alliance has cracks, it'll all be worth it. Even if it means making two enemies in the process.

The ends justify the means.

* * *

**Mayzalline Clairewell, Female Capitolite**

* * *

I take a glass of red wine from the tray and swirl it around a few times, inhaling the crisp, pungent aroma. Hexiral and I bought only the best beverages for our multitude of guests, so I think I've earned the right to enjoy a drink or two myself.

"May!" someone cries, drawing my attention. The voice belongs to none other than my over-educated, bright green neighbor, Firenze Otto. He materializes out of the dense crowd, greets me with a winning smile, and places his hand on my shoulder. "This is a magnificent party, dear friend. Many thanks for having the courtesy to invite me."

"My pleasure, Firenze," I say, returning his smile, though mine is less than genuine. "The more, the merrier."

"Of course, of course. Now, if you don't mind me asking," he says, raising one eyebrow, "if this is indeed a party to celebrate the Hunger Games, why not host it on the day of the bloodbath? Wouldn't that be more… reasonable?"

Brushing a strand of bright pink hair out of my eyes, I let out a small sigh. Firenze already knows the reason, but he just likes to pester me with questions. "As you know, my husband works as a sponsor. He's required to arrive at the betting floor exactly forty-eight hours before the bloodbath commences, so that all of the sponsorships can be easily sorted out beforehand. Hexiral never gets to attend my pre-Game party, so this year, I decided to hold the party this morning. That way, he gets to have fun, too."

Firenze nods, apparently satisfied with my answer. Still, he continues with his incessant questions, much to my chagrin. "So, Mayzalline, does Hexiral have any early favorites?"

I smile, staring down into my drink. "Well, he always gives each tribute fifty silvers, mostly because he feels bad for the weaker kids from the outer-districts. But anything beyond that, I cannot tell you. You know, confidentiality agreements and whatnot."

"Indeed." He stuffs a shrimp puff into his mouth and wipes his hands together. Through a full mouth, he continues, "Well, personally, I think that District Two guy looks scary enough. The District Two girl, too, along with the rest of the Careers. Even that boy from District Ten looks like he could do some damage." Giving me a sly, sidelong glance, he throws his arms up into the air. "Come on, you have to be able to tell me _something_! Anything! I just want to know."

I shake my head and take a sip of wine, shuddering at the bitterly sour, yet delicious taste. "No, Firenze. Anything I tell you might give you an advantage in the betting, and that's illegal. For the last time, I cannot tell you anything significant."

He scoffs, and waves me off. "Fine. Suit yourself, bet on the children. They're all dead anyways!" He walks away, towards the main banquet, and takes a couple handfuls of food before sulking out of my house.

I take another sip of wine. Firenze has always been disagreeable, and some over-coddling on the part of his mother endowed within him the belief that, not only is he the smartest person in any room he graces with his presence, but also that he has an impeccable sense of humor and unrivaled social skills. All of which are false. Which merely leaves him with an ugly personality and an ego the size of the moon. I'm surprised he even fit through the front door.

Plucking one of the lilies out of the large bouquet, I stare at the silken pink petals, wondering which tributes my husband will settle on this time. The sponsorship system behaves much like a stock market, actually. Those who sponsor the winning tribute are entitled to future favors from that tribute, and the remaining unused funds are split proportionally between the winning sponsors, according to who gave how much. Hexiral happens to be an excellent guesser, of course.

I'm a little surprised by my own stream of thought this time around. I suppose I never spent too much time worrying about where our money comes from. It's just… there, even though I know that the Hunger Games are why we have this nice house, this expensive alcohol, these beautiful lilies, and a party attended by some of the wealthiest and most renowned people in the Capitol. I'm not ungrateful for our wealth, certainly not, but it does feel odd, having gotten our entire livelihood from of a couple of incredibly good guesses, and subsequent investments in the Capitol stock market. Oftentimes, I feel like I don't deserve any of this. Probably because I don't. Probably because we're funded by hurt and violence and death.

A sudden, awful realization dawns upon me: Firenze is right. Dying children fund my fancy parties and nice clothes and pretty house and delicious food.

At this thought, the glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor, sending red wine stains all up the side of my poofy lavender dress. I set the flower down and stare down at the mess, surprised by my own clumsiness.

"Mayzalline?" I glance up and see Hexiral standing beside me, looking down at the shattered wine glass. "Dear, are you alright?"

I sigh deeply, still horribly shaken. Why do I feel like this? Why have I never realized these things before? What _planet_ have I been living on? "Yes, yes. Everything is alright. I just… was thinking."

He gives a nervous laugh. A couple of the guests have taken notice of the mess I've made, but they pretend to go along their business. "Maybe you should think less if this is what happens."

Hexiral meant it as a joke, I know, but what he said holds more truth than he could ever realize. "Yes… maybe that's it. I'll just think less."

Because then I won't have to think about where our money comes from, and I won't have to see the blood that soaks everything we own. Of course. I will just seal those thoughts away. The entire concept and scheme of the Hunger Games is a force that neither Hexiral nor I can stop or control. We're just two people, right? We are too insignificant to even put a dent in a system that has existed for more than sixty-three years. We're just trying to survive, like everyone else. We're guiltless.

But when I look down at the ground, running down the side of my dress, pooling under the shards of broken glass, I see only blood.

I scream.

* * *

**FYI: The alliances are updated on the blog as they form.**

**Let me know what you think!**


	21. Sharpening Our Claws

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

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**Training Day Two**

* * *

**Birch Styler, District Ten Male**

* * *

The girl from District Eleven lingers at the periphery of the fighting mat, careful to conceal the fact that she hasn't let me leave her sight since they let us into the training room this morning. But my powers of observation far surpass hers.

There are many important things I learned during my time in prison: how to bribe a guard, how to survive a fight, how to defend myself from drunk guards, how to avoid becoming someone's bitch. Above all, though, I learned how to read people. Their posture, the way they speak, their hands, their mouth, their face, and especially their eyes. Every little movement conveys a vast library of information, and from what I can tell, Selene actually does want to become my ally. And, even after a day of deliberation, I can't actually think of a reason to deny her. She's strong, she's smart, she knows her way around a trench knife, and as far as I can tell, which is pretty far, she doesn't have any ulterior motives for wanting to form an alliance.

The same cannot be said for me.

I duck to avoid the trainer's incoming fist, and return fire with a well-placed kick to the sternum. The burly man staggers back, clutching at his ribcage, and lets out a gasp of pain. A few seconds pass, and he rights himself, dragging his hand across his dripping brow, and I can tell he's tired of my assaults.

"I think I'm done for today," I say.

He nods eagerly, his beady eyes unusually wide. "Good, good. I think you need some rest, anyways."

I'm not the one who needs rest, but I let him believe his own lie.

As I step off of the blue mat, I glance at Selene and raise my eyebrows, indicating that I want to speak with her. Her eyes genuinely light up at my unspoken request.

She crosses her arms and looks up at me with an expectant gaze. "Have you given my suggestion any thought?"

I square my shoulders, ignoring her question. "Why do you want to be my ally?"

"Like I said, you seem capable-"

"Cut the crap. Give me a _real_ reason, not some fluffy stock answer."

For a few seconds she is completely silent, her normally amiable eyes now severe and searching. She sighs. "Because you remind me of the people in District Eleven, the ones who have gone through hell and back, but chose to make themselves stronger rather than crack under the pressure. Because you're powerful, and even though you have all of these badass, dangerous vibes around you, you're still respectful towards the other tributes." She smiles when she sees the corner of my mouth twitch in embarrassment. "Yeah, I saw you let the District Six girl go ahead of you in the line for the ranged weapons station, even after you'd been waiting there for ten minutes. I know there's a gentleman in there somewhere."

Shifting my weight in discomfort, I mumble something about how I didn't want to use the ranged weapons anyways.

I didn't think anyone had seen me.

"And besides," she says, a sly grin creeping up her face. "I've always liked bad boys."

This last reason catches me off-guard. Does it even qualify as a reason? It sounds more like… I don't even know what. Infatuation?

Either way, I can use that to my advantage. It gives me power over her, no matter how provisional.

"Is that so?" I ask, keeping my tone noncommittal, even though I've already decided to ally with her. I allow myself a small smile. "Well, Eleven, I can't imagine why I would say 'no'. So I guess we're allies."

Her dark brown eyes widen with surprise. "R…really?"

I shrug. "Yeah, why not? I've got nothing to lose."

Another few seconds of silence pass between us. "So…" she begins, obviously unsure what to talk about. Maybe she was expecting to argue her case a lot more than she actually had to. "Ah, what skills, exactly, do you think we have to know before going into the arena?"

I look around the room and shrug. "Shelter-making, food-finding, medical know-how. That kind of stuff. I mean, we already have the fighting and self-defense covered, you and I. So I think, if anything, we should focus on general survival skills rather than fighting. But it's up to you what you want to learn."

Selene cocks her head to the side and furrows her brow. "Maybe… maybe we could each learn a different set of skills, then teach the other what we've learned once training is over."

Maybe allying with her was a good idea, after all. "Now there's an idea."

Nodding, she says, "I'll start with the first aid station, if that's alright with you."

"Fine by me." I incline my head, and she crosses to the other side of the training room, where I see the first aid director greet her with a pleasant smile.

Excellent. I now have an ally. An innocent, malleable, useful ally.

* * *

**Relly Jay, District Six Female**

* * *

I line up my sights with the target. Last time I missed by two feet. This time, though, I will hit the bulls-eye.

Pulling back the slingshot, I feel the stretchy fabric go taut between my fingers and steady my hands, slowly breathing out, like what I've seen the District Two guy do before he throws his knives at the wall. I need to aim as best as possible. Being able to properly use a weapon is the only chance I have at winning, and a slingshot is a great place to start.

I release the rock, and it goes soaring through the air. Unfortunately, I aimed a little too low, and it strikes the third ring from the center. At least it's an improvement, though.

"I'm getting better," I say triumphantly, placing my hands on my hips. "Getting better all the time."

Beside me, Alder slowly bobs his head up and down, but I get the feeling that he nods more out of pity than anything. "That's great, Relly."

He's always so cold.

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. "I'd like to see you do better."

"That's a false argument," he deadpans. "I can use poisons, properly administer medical assistance, and, in the most extreme of circumstances, wield a dagger. I don't need to use a slingshot."

My shoulders slump. "You're too literal, Alder."

"I'm not literal, I'm realistic. And anyways, it's better than suffering from a chronic rose-colored view of the world." His gaze shifts between me and the bulls-eye, his eyes uncaring. "At least I see things for how they are."

"No, you don't," I respond. Alder's pessimism is beginning to annoy me. I've tried to be as nice as I can, because I know he needs it, but I am really getting tired of his attitude, or lack thereof. I can't say for certain when the confrontational tone enters my voice, but it does all the same. "You're just jaded. Either that, or you don't care."

As I speak, something about his demeanor changes. His distant eyes suddenly come into focus, sharp and icy, and I take an involuntary step back.

"Is that so?" he asks, voice low and controlled.

My lips quiver with held-back words. I don't want to make him mad, but I want to speak my mind. "As far as I can tell, yes." I replace the slingshot on the weapons rack and turn back to face him, annoyance tingling at the base of my ribcage. "You mope around all day, you do your best to make everyone else around you feel bad, and whenever you speak, your words are depressing. So yes, I think you're jaded and uncaring." I pause, taking a deep breath. "And you're selfish, too."

For a moment his eyes widen, and something ghosts across his face. It almost looks like regret. But just as quickly, the emotion is gone, and he looks out across the room with a blank stare. "You're right," he says. The sheer emptiness in his voice makes me feel guilty for calling him out. He looks down at the floor and heaves a deep sigh. "I'm going over to the medicine table." More quietly, he adds, "Holler if you need me."

I watch him leave, feeling a vague sort of pity for my supposed ally. He's intelligent, he's surprisingly fast, and he knows a lot about medicine, but he's a serious wet blanket if I ever saw one. Deeper, though, I can sense something else in him, too, as if he's sorry for the way he acts but doesn't care enough to apologize.

Alder is an enigma.

An annoying, depressing enigma.

But he's my ally, so I have to support him, no matter how difficult that will be.

* * *

**Zeno Atticus, District Three Male**

* * *

The black marker squeaks incessantly as the bug-eyed woman from the Newtonian mechanics station scrawls a couple of equations on the whiteboard. I'm unfamiliar with most of them, since I only took algebra and chemistry in school, not physics. But I am perfectly capable of learning.

"This," she mumbles, pointing to the simplest string of letters, "is Newton's second law. Force is equivalent to mass multiplied by acceleration. For example," she says, drawing a tiny diagram of a rock falling to the ground, "let's say we have a five kilogram rock, accelerating towards the Earth at a constant ten meters per second squared. That means that the Earth is pulling on the rock with fifty Newtons of force. Does that make sense?"

The District Four male and I both nod, and I fold my arms on the smooth wooden counter. I answer, "Yes. Acceleration and mass are both proportional to force."

"Correct." She erases the board clean, and writes down a single word: torque. "Tell me everything you know about that word."

Shrugging, I twiddle my thumbs and look down. "To my knowledge, torque is the force that causes something to rotate. Right?"

"Correct again." With a wry grin, she adds, "You are a smart one, aren't you?" She draws another diagram on the board, this time of a teeter-totter. Both sides are supposed to be equally balanced, so the seesaw remains in equilibrium. "Now, can you tell me why the board is balanced, why it doesn't sink on one side or the other?"

This time, the District Four male answers. "Isn't it because, on either side of the pivot, there are equal forces pushing down on the board?"

"Pulling down on the board, actually," she says. "But you are correct, at least on a basic level. Good job mentioning the pivot point, by the way. I was just getting to that." She points to the fulcrum, and with an overenthusiastic smile, says, "This is the most important part. This determines everything about weight distribution, angular acceleration, rotational momentum…" Upon seeing our blank stares, she clarifies with, "Basically, the pivot point dictates how fast the circle will spin."

I nod slowly.

Beside me, the District Four male rests his chin on his fist and drums his fingers against the smooth countertop in rhythm, his eyes drooping just enough to convey utter boredom. "How, exactly, will this help us in the arena?"

The lady pauses. Setting down the black marker, her bony shoulders rise with an uncertain shrug, though her lips twitch with a knowing smile. "My dear, the training stations are merely here to help prepare you for whatever _may_ lie in the arena. There is no guarantee that what you learn here will lead to your salvation, although I'd love if that were the case." She raises her arms with excitement. "After all, physics is exciting!"

Her arms fall back to her sides, and she looks around the room, searching for someone. I don't think she finds them, because, more guardedly she adds, "But if I were you, boy, I'd spend my time here." Her thin lips pull back into another calculating smile, but even as the District Four male pesters her, demanding that she explain herself, she does not answer. She instead returns her attention to the board, and continues her explanation of torque and force and momentum.

Though I find the subject fascinating, the lady tends to repeat herself a lot, mostly for the benefit of the District Four male, though her thought process seems little half-baked at times. Either way, my thoughts wander of their own accord, and I think of many things, ranging from home, to school, to my family, even to what kind of contraptions and vehicles they have in the Capitol. With all of their wealth, I'm sure they have some pretty cool things. Then again, considering how often they squander their money on ridiculous clothing, pretentious artwork, and expensive foods and alcohol, they probably don't.

My eyes wander over to the fighting mat, where I catch a glimpse of the District Twelve and District Eight males. The younger, dark-haired boy gives me a bright smile and a quick wave, whilst the older blonde boy merely raises his hand in acknowledgement. Tentatively, I wave back to them.

I wonder…?

According to the past sixty-three Hunger Games, there is a ninety-two percent chance of one or more trio alliances forming during training. Maybe… maybe I could join them? They seem friendly enough.

But before I get the chance to greet them, Rumor walks up alongside me and places her hand on my shoulder. "Hey, Zeno. Learn anything interesting?"

I nod. "Yes, I learned a couple of things."

She gives me a smile, so bright that it borders on disingenuous, and drags me over to another station, away from the District Eight and District Twelve boys. Even though I would much rather be with them, my fear of Rumor prevents me from leaving her side. I don't want to alienate her, but I also don't want to stay with her, because, well, she isn't very nice and she's rather manipulative.

I need to find a solution to this problem. Fast.

* * *

**Waverly Capri, District Four Female**

* * *

"No," Stellar says, taking a sip of water as a bead of sweat drips down the side of her smooth face. "I've never seen a dolphin before. What are they like?"

I lift the trident up, feeling the smooth metal handle press against my fingers, and I heft the weapon above my shoulder, setting my sights on the red bulls-eye at the center of the circles. Taking a step forward, I let the projectile fly, and the middle prong sinks deep into the red dot. My years and years of training are reaffirmed.

"Eh," I say, rubbing my hands together. "They aren't much. One of the past victors, a weird guy named Niploblu, managed to train his own dolphin to do tricks, and I've seen the thing up close. They're ugly, noisy, and slimy - it was a total waste of my time. They are smart, though, I'll give them that. But their intelligence is outweighed by their inability to ever do anything useful, like stay quiet for more than five seconds." I walk to the haystack and yank the trident out of the target, relishing the fact that I managed to bury the prongs up to the base of the fork. It proves that there's a lot of force behind my throw.

Stellar leans back against the wall, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Well, I'd still like to see one."

Grinning, I reply, "I'm sure you would. That doesn't mean it would be worth it, though."

Shrugging, she concedes the point. "True, true. But maybe I'd like dolphins more than you do." She steals a glance at Nemo, who has seated himself over at the 'Newtonian mechanics' station. "Does Nemo like dolphins?"

I shrug, trying to convey as much disinterest and dislike as possible. "Don't know, don't care. If he likes dolphins, that just gives me another reason to hate them."

Stellar scoffs. "Give me a break. Why do you hate him so much, anyways? What did he ever do to you?"

"None of your business," I quip. "He's an insolent jerk. That's all you need to know."

"Uh huh." She holds up her curled fingers and inspects her nails. "Whatever."

She doesn't know Nemo. She doesn't know what he said. She wasn't there.

I don't know. Maybe I'm overreacting. But he overreacted just as much as I did, so it's at least half his fault, if not more. Either way, the issue isn't something I'll direct my efforts towards resolving. District partner or not, he's obviously more trouble than he's worth.

"Oh, look," Stellar mutters, drawing my attention. I follow her line of vision to Necali and Erizelda, talking to each other over at the weapons rack. She laughs, and he smiles in turn. "The two little lovebirds are at it again."

Stellar hates Erizelda because she has, more or less, usurped Stellar's role as Necali's district partner, so I can totally understand Stellar's reason for disliking the girl. As for me, I hate Erizelda because she's annoying, manipulative, and constantly seeking attention from the rest of the Careers, particularly Necali. And I just can't bring myself to respect the idea of a romance in the arena. I mean, how stupid can they be? At least one of them is going to end up dead. Preferably both.

Talk about doomed love.

"Let them be," I reply, careful to keep my voice low. "If they're going to let their hormones distract them, thus ruining their own chances at victory, I'm not going to stop them. It makes our job that much easier." I look at Stellar, and she simply shakes her head. She knows that I'm right.

"Yeah, well," she says, crossing her arms. "Our _glorious leader _shouldn't have such an easily-exploited weakness."

"Who says he's our leader?" I ask, leveling the trident with the target. On the count of one, two, three, I release the projectile, and it strikes the hay bale slightly off-center. So close. "He's just a useful idiot who _thinks_ he's our leader. You've watched Games of the past, haven't you?" I pull the trident from the target in one fluid motion, imagining that the hay is some tribute's chest. "The leader of the Careers rarely ever wins, unless they're both incredibly intelligent and incredibly strong. It seems that Necali only has strength going for him, so he either won't foresee the inevitable in-arena coup or he won't know how to repair the cracks once they start forming in the Pack. And there are surely a couple of other things that might cause his downfall, but you get my drift." I walk up close to Stellar and lean in close. "The only power that Necali has is that which we give him. Nothing more, nothing less. I only let him play president because I'd rather have the target on his back, not mine. The leader rarely ever makes it out alive."

Stellar's eyes widen, and she gives me a sidelong stare. "Why are you telling me this?"

I step away, shrugging. "Because you're intelligent," I say, appealing to her silly ego. "And I know that you understand where I'm coming from."

She looks down. "Yeah, well. I guess you're right."

"Of course I am," I say, flashing her a cold smile. "I need to be if I expect to win."

* * *

**Trance Berrill, District One Male**

* * *

I stare at the rope, dumbfounded by the intricate knot. "I'm supposed to untie _this_?"

The guy across the counter nods unsympathetically. "Yup. Start from the outside, and work your way in. You need to understand how to destroy something in order to build it again."

"That's a destructive philosophy," I say, setting to work on the tightly wound ball. The scraggly, wiry material scratches my skin, but I dig my fingernails under the coils, meticulously tearing the web apart, piece by piece.

"It may be destructive," he replies, "but it's the truth. Learn to deal with it."

Raising my eyebrows, I keep working at the knot. "Okay."

It takes another two minutes, but I finally manage to get the rope untangled.

The man gives my work a cursory glance, then nods. "Alright. First, I'll teach you how to make the timber knot. It's probably the easiest knot in existence, truth be told, but it's effective and it's reliable, so long as tension is maintained. Here," he says, picking up another piece of rope. "Let me show you."

He messes around with it, tying it in loops, and even though I do my best to pay attention, my concentration is broken when Necali shouts my name across the room. I turn to see him waving at me, gesturing that I join him.

"Oh, I have to go," I say, standing up from the table.

"But your lesson has only just begun!" the man complains, holding up the half-finished knot, his face scrunched up into a pitiable expression of betrayal. Weirdo.

Over my shoulder, I say, "I'll probably be back later, don't worry."

My words don't seem to comfort or reassure him, but he doesn't say anything further.

I catch up with Necali, and I see that he's called over all of the other Careers, as well. And Erizelda. She isn't really a Career, but Necali seems to have taken a particular liking to her. I don't really dislike her, so I think she's a perfectly fine addition to the Pack, but I can tell that the District Two and District Four girls are less than pleased to have her on board. I wonder why?

Out of habit, I start playing with my pink stone necklace, moving the pendant around the knobby chain, making little bumpy sounds.

"Alright," Necali says, spinning his knife around by the loop of the handle, "we have to start forming our bloodbath strategy. And we have to plan for multiple contingencies, since, well, these are the Hunger Games and shit happens." He looks directly at me, green eyes piercing. I try to pinpoint the moment in which he became our de facto leader, but I cannot. Was it when we first met, right off the train? When he rounded up the alliance yesterday? Or was it when he called all of us over, no more than a minute ago? I can't really tell. "So, what sort of useful non-combat-related skills have we learned in the past two days? Once training is over for today, I thought we'd be able to teach each other what we've learned." He gives me a shark-toothed smile. "After all, we each need to contribute to the alliance if we expect to dominate the arena."

I think he got that idea from the District Eleven girl. I heard her talking with her ally about trading skills after training, but I can't be sure. Maybe he came up with the idea on his own.

Before I can answer, Stellar says, "I perfected my back flip today." She flicks her hair over her shoulder, a smug grin on her face.

"Great," Necali deadpans. "How does that help the team?"

"I don't know," she answers, miffed by his unenthusiastic response. "It makes us look cooler, I guess."

He rolls his eyes. "Right. Anyone else?"

"I learned about Newtonian mechanics," the guy from District Four responds. "Not entirely sure how that'll help in the arena, but I figured I'd give it a shot."

"Good," Necali says. "Considering how specialized that is, though, we'll just defer to you if we need to use it in the arena. We can't waste our time learning about such a complex topic when it might not even apply to the Game. After all, Gamemakers are known for setting up red herrings during training."

"Yeah," District Four says, shrugging. "Fair enough. I also spent some time at the plant identification station, if that helps any."

"So did I," Stellar pipes up.

Necali nods. "Good. We'll discuss what you guys learned after dinner."

"I worked at the trap making station," Waverly quickly interjects, not willing to be outdone by her district partner. "I learned a lot about nooses and bear traps, and a little bit about nets and pitfalls. And I practiced at the fauna station, so I learned about dangerous animals, too."

"Alright. Erizelda?"

The pretty girl gives him a winning smile and places her hand close to his. If he notices her body language, he doesn't let on. "Foraging, shelter building, and stealth."

"Excellent. How about you, Alpha?"

The girl from District One looks up with a cutting glare and crosses her arms. She hates the rest of the Careers, too, not just me, but she puts up with us because she said she wants to be around the 'violent crowd'. "Fire. I worked with the fire." She says nothing further, and everyone looks around awkwardly, not entirely sure how to respond.

"Oookay. Trance?"

I stop messing around with my necklace and narrow my eyes, thinking. "I worked on camouflage yesterday…"

"We know this-"

"Paint eater," Stellar mutters.

"And I learned about poison today," I continue, unhindered by her words. I was just curious about the paint, anyways. "I was going to learn about knots, but then you called me over. Are those useful non-combat-related skills?"

"Absolutely, Trance." Necali smiles knowingly and looks around the group, meeting each of our gazes, probably to make sure that we all feel included. "Okay, then. Everyone resume your business, and we'll discuss plans and skills after dinner. Sound good?"

Everyone mumbles a quick 'yes', and all of us go our separate ways. None of us exactly enjoy each other's company, but the whole concept of the Pack forces us to work alongside the other Careers. And Erizelda.

Otherwise there would be no alliance.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	22. Counting Down the Days

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Hotel Day Two - Evening**

* * *

**Flavia Reeves, District Seven Female**

* * *

My fingers trace the indentations in the stone, following the carefully cut maze with exceeding precision. A soft breeze flows across the balcony, carrying the soft sounds of the city as early evening unfolds. Across the street, a few overdressed Capitolites sit on their roof, slightly lower than my line of vision. One of them waves to me, but I turn away without acknowledging the rich, hoity-toity scum. They might as well have brought me here. After all, they're the ones who watch the Games, they're the ones who bet and gamble on children's lives, laughing and drinking and having a merry time while we tributes fight and die in the arena.

Shivering despite the early summer heat, I pull the jacket tighter around my shoulders and draw my knees up to my chest.

An unsettled sickness has taken root in my gut, and there's nothing I can do about it. In less than two day's time, I am going to go into the Hunger Games, armed with nothing more than myself, my nonexistent allies, and maybe some weapons and food, if I'm lucky enough to find any. But what am I even doing here?

What is my life?

What is it worth?

Will it be wasted in the arena, taken by some cruel and uncaring Career? Or maybe I'll get killed by a mutt, brutally torn limb from limb without so much as a chance to say goodbye to the world. Maybe I'll starve, or maybe I'll burn to death, or maybe I'll die of dehydration.

Or maybe I'll win.

I want to live, of course, but I fear that outcome just as much as I fear the others. What will I have to do in order to survive? Who will I have to kill? What sort of irreparable damage will I inflict upon my own soul?

I've seen it in Bluebell and Teak, the District Seven mentors. There is a hollowness in everything they do, even when they try to put up a mask of optimism, because they've lost hope. A violent victory, followed by years and years of unsuccessful mentorships has made them stony and pessimistic, even though they try their best to act otherwise. And then there's Kalin, the District Seven victor of the Forty-Sixth Hunger Games, who committed suicide nearly three years after coming home triumphant. In her farewell note, she spoke of guilt and pain and regret, of her inability to protect her allies and the bloody stains on her hands that would never go away.

I do not want to become Kalin. I don't want my actions to haunt me. But is there any other choice? Is there any way to truly survive the arena, emerging the same person as when I entered?

And even if I did manage to get home, I'd still have to deal with my father. Technically I'm not an adult yet, so my legal guardians would have charge over all of the monetary assets I win. In all likelihood, my father would disregard my mother, my sister, and me, and steal the money in order to sate his hunger for gambling. The bastard probably wouldn't even care if we starved.

He sold my sister and maimed my mother, all for some pathetic addiction, and I know he wouldn't think twice about taking my winnings.

At least I would get monthly stipends from the Capitol. That would prevent him from taking it all at once, though it won't stop him from bogging my family down with even more debt. Then again, when I turn eighteen, it won't matter anymore. I'll cut him loose and let him wallow in his own misery.

He certainly deserves it.

I let out a sigh and rest my chin on my knees. There are too many things to worry about.

A knock sounds from the balcony doorway, and I turn to see Bluebell standing with a small smile on her lips. "Hey, Flavia. How are you?"

I shrug. "A dead girl walking. How else can I be?"

She seats herself on the lounge chair beside me and places her hands in her lap. "Don't be so down." Placing a hand on my arm, she says, "You stand a chance. You do."

"Oh, really?" I say, though it's more of a statement than a question. I can't bring myself to believe her, as much as I would love to. "You're quite optimistic."

"I'm an optimist by necessity," Bluebell says. "It keeps me going during the Games." She looks down. "The alternative is too much to bear. So I choose to be happy."

I meet her gaze. "Sounds like a good philosophy."

"It's served me well so far." She looks down at her hands and, twiddling her thumbs, she asks, "Have you thought about any potential allies? Tomorrow is the last day to make any alliances before you go into the arena."

Solemnly, I nod. "Yes, I know. I just… who can I ally myself with? Who would want me?"

Reaching out, Bluebell places her hand on my shoulder. "Hun, you're going to have to approach other people. You need to let them know that you're interested. You need to let them know why they need you. But above all, you need to choose people who will benefit you. Which is why…" She momentarily trails off into uncomfortable silence, then collects herself and finishes with, "Which is why you should avoid your district partner."

This takes me by surprise. "Linden?"

"Yes. He's a bit unstable."

I throw my head back and laugh. "You think I didn't notice the second I met him? I hadn't even considered him as an ally. And I'm pretty sure he would have rejected me, anyways."

My mentor nods. "Good, good. I do hope that you consider other allies, though. It will help you in the long run."

"Yeah," I say, once again tracing the carvings in the stone banister. "I just need to find people that I can trust with my life. Shouldn't be too hard, should it?"

* * *

**Stellar Andrews, District Two Female**

* * *

"That tickles," I say, pulling my foot away from the masseuse, who glares at me for the tenth time in a row. "Sorry, I can't help it."

She places her hands on her hips and walks over to the selection of oils and creams and other moisturizing agents. "If you can't stand foot rubs, then maybe we'll just have to skip straight to the bath. Is that alright?"

"Yeah," I say, sitting up on the cushioned table. "That sounds fine."

Leading me into a beautifully sunlit room, the masseuse dips her hand into the steaming bath water, then flicks her fingers dry. "Test the water, tell me if it's okay."

I dip my foot into the shimmering pool. "Feels nice."

She nods. "Excellent." As she leaves the room, closing the frosted glass door behind her, she says, "Please call me if you need anything."

"Will do."

When I hear the door shut completely, locking me alone in the wide space, I let the fuzzy bathrobe fall to the floor, and sink into the smelly lavender water. The water is slightly warmer than my skin, not too hot, not too lukewarm. These Capitol people know how to prepare a bath, I'll give them that.

With a drawn-out sigh I dunk my entire scalp under the surface. There's something in the water that instantly makes every part of my body soft and silky, even my hair. It's quite nice.

Right now, I know that many of the young outer-district tributes are down in the training center, playing soccer with a gigantic inflatable ball. Amusement for idiots, that's what Alpha called it. And though I am automatically inclined to disagree with her about everything, I'll have to make an exception for that game. It's just a distraction from what they should be focusing on, like winning the Game. But it's better for me if they go into the arena unprepared, so I suppose I can't complain.

I can complain about Erizelda, though.

She thinks she's so superior, so beautiful, so freaking perfect, and Necali's coddling just makes it worse. I swear, every time I see her oh-so-lovely face, I just want to tear it off. But I can't do that, because we aren't in the arena yet, and I'm supposed to be in an alliance with her. Supposedly, I can't just go around slaughtering the people to whom I have pledged my loyalty, even though I'd love nothing more than to pull her down off of her high horse. I just can't imagine why Necali would trust an untrained slut from District Eight over his own Career district partner.

To be honest, his favoritism is an insult to me, even if Necali didn't mean it that way.

But I've never liked him too much, either. He gets to play leader for awhile, and the rest of us will plot and scheme behind his back while he's off kissing his girlfriend.

Next to me, there's a television remote, which I use to activate the ceiling screen.

A pretty, ivory-haired anchorwoman greets me, her smile so wide that her face looks like it's about to rip open. Her face glimmers with thousands of little granules of implanted crystal, and her voice runs heavy with sickly sweet words.

"No injuries were reported," she says, straightening her pile of papers. "Tonight's top story: the Hunger Games! Who's dating who? What will the arena contain? What alliances have formed? And, of course, who will win? We have Hyperion Nauticaa here to give his professional opinion! Hyperion?"

A gothic-looking man, dressed in all black, appears on a split-screen beside the anchor woman. "Yes, hello, Eva. Thanks for having me."

"You are most welcome. Thanks for being here. Tell me, Hyperion, what's the atmosphere like on the betting floor?"

He gives a jolly laugh and shrugs. "Well, at this point it's all speculation. The Games haven't started yet, and the training scores haven't even been assigned, so most of the bets right now are simply shots in the dark. However, as of now, Necali Reinerston, Nemo Dedecus, Trance Berrill, and Stellar Andrews have the most backing. That's the most I can tell you."

I do a little fist-pump in the bathtub. They definitely know how to pick a winner.

"Oh?" the woman asks, raising a dramatically sculpted eyebrow. "Any word on current alliances?"

He lets out an uncertain sigh. "Actually, no. We know for sure that all of the Careers have formed a single alliance, and that a number of outer-district alliances have formed, as well, but we know nothing further at this time."

Eva nods. "Thank you so much, Hyperion. We love having you on the show."

"I love being here. Take care."

She smiles, and the angle goes back to single-screen, cutting Hyperion out of the frame. "Alright, in other news…"

I leave the television on but I effectively tune it out.

It's rather amusing that they waste so much of their time speculating on the Hunger Games. It's like a sport to them.

A big, ugly, brutal sport, where there can only be one winner.

I just have to make sure that winner is me.

* * *

**Neela Haile, Avox**

* * *

Upon opening the door, I discover that the District Seven male's room is almost perfectly clean, save a little blue ribbon on the bedside table, though that's probably a token, so I'll make sure to leave that alone. No clothes on the ground, no food on the table, and the bed remains in pristine condition. Has he even slept once during his stay? He - Linden, I think his name is - should really get some rest. In fact, last year, the girl from District Six didn't get any sleep from the time she was reaped to the time she died in the arena seven days later, and she ended up going bonkers and killing her entire alliance. I hope that Linden doesn't share the same fate.

I set to work changing the sheets, despite them already being spotless. We Avoxes are required to clean everything, regardless if it's clean or not. Personally, as a member of the slave staff, I hate that rule. But it's not like I can protest it. It's not like I can _voice_ my grievances.

Pulling the new, clean sheets out and tucking them into place, I wonder, for the ten thousandth time, what my life would have been life if I hadn't been caught by the Peacekeepers. My brother and I were so close, _so close _to the border. We had already dug a hole under the fence, we had a plan for afterwards, we had tied up all of our loose ends. Our freedom was within reach. And then… nothing. Everything was gone, stripped away with such painful ease.

How the Peacekeepers found out, I will never know. But they did, and they spirited my brother and me away to the Capitol, purely to cut out our tongues and force us into servitude, making sure to keep the two of us as far apart as possible. I haven't seen my brother in three years, and I've resigned myself to the fact that I will likely never see him again. It's almost worse than if he was dead, because I know that he is so close, yet unattainably far away.

That's the kind of pain that the Capitol thrives off of, though. They like to watch us 'district dogs' suffer. They-

"What are you doing?" a harsh voice demands. I jump, dropping the dirty sheets, and spin around to see the District Seven male standing in the doorway. His vicious expression horrifies me.

I take a few steps back, keeping my hands up as a sign of placation, and shake my head. I can't answer him. If there were ever a time I wished I could spontaneously regrow body parts, now would be that time.

He rushes forward into the room and looks at the bedside table. His eyes widen with rage, and he turns to me with an animalistic snarl. "Where is my sister's ribbon? Where did you put it?!"

I look at the table, terrified to see that the ribbon is no longer there. The movement of the sheets must have created a gust, knocking the lightweight piece of fabric to the ground. Why can't I just explain that to him? Why couldn't I just speak? Things would be so much easier.

Still holding my hands up, I creep around the end of the bed, hoping to reach the bedside before Linden cracks completely. Just a little farther.

He doesn't give me the chance. Rushing forward with hideously angry eyes, he grabs me by the neck and pins me against the white wall. A dull crack resonates in the back of my mind, and stars flood my vision.

"Thieving bitch!" he cries, dark hair tumbling across his face. "Where did you put it? WHERE IS DAPHNE'S RIBBON?!"

I weakly point to the dresser, mouthing the word 'there', but he isn't paying attention. All he sees is red.

With a flick of his wrist, it seems, he sends me flying across the room, and I roll out into the hallway with a pained grunt. Damn, he's strong.

Propping myself up with a wobbling arm, I bring my other arm up to protect my face as Linden rains down a hail of punches, fueled by a blind rage that I can't quite understand. A vein bulges on the side of his neck, his bared teeth glisten in the late afternoon light, and his eyes burn red, two black disks surrounded by an ocean of blood. Crap, am I going to die? This guy isn't messing around.

He yanks me up by my collar and drags me out through the lobby and out into the main hallway, breathing heavily and cursing to himself. Pinning me against the safety railing, he leans close, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off of his skin.

"How dare you touch my token?" he says, his voice low and razor-sharp. "You tarnished her memory. I am here, in the Capitol, to honor _her_ and avenge her _death_. And yet here you stand. Disrespectful. Unclean. _Weak_." His eyes widen, seemingly with realization, and he leans away, letting me sink to the ground. "You don't deserve to live. You desecrated the one thing that ever mattered."

Again, he grabs my neck, but this time he scoops my legs up, and for a moment I don't understand what he's trying to do. I fight against his grip, but I might as well be made of air for all the impact I have. It's only after he tosses me over the side of the railing that it enters my brain: _He just killed me._

A screech erupts from my vocal cords, more animal than human, the noise riddled with fear of death. But strangely, as I watch the banister rise above me, the fear seeps away into nothingness. There isn't much I can do now.

Thoughts dart through my mind at a million miles a second, here, there, everywhere.

_I wonder if they'll inform my brother of my death? Or my parents? I guess I don't care about my parents so much as I care about Luke. I just want him to know what happened._

_Hey, technically I'll be the first Hunger Games casualty this year. Never thought I'd say that._

_And Reith. Oh, no. He's too nice, he doesn't deserve to lose a friend. I should have been meaner to him, that way he wouldn't miss me as much as I know he will. _

_Damn it, I never got to say-_

The floor meets me with life-ending force. Every single part of me shatters upon impact with the ground, ripping every cell in my body apart at the molecular level and splattering my blood across the otherwise white carpet. My brain dissolves into an insignificant puddle of grey matter, and every thread that connected me to the physical world dissolves with it. Only one fragment of thought lingers, quivering for a brief moment before it permanently echoes into nonexistence:

-_goodbye._

* * *

**Glen Ackerman, District Nine Male**

* * *

The girl from District Eight sends me a cutting glare and turns back around to her artwork. "Leave me alone, Glen."

Sighing, I lean forward in the cushioned chair and shake my head. "Erizelda, Erizelda, Erizelda. I don't think you realize what kind of opportunity you're passing up, here. I mean, just take a moment to think. Pagnotta and I will be an awesome team, and I you'll make a great addition."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I already have a team, and they actually know what they're doing." I think her words contain something close to disgust, but that can't possibly be the case. I mean, she's talking about turning me down. It must be more like regret. Yeah, she's just sad that she already agreed to another alliance before joining forces with me and Pagnotta. Poor, poor Erizelda.

"Well," I say, rising from my seat, "there's always next time."

The beautiful girl gives me a confused glare. "What even…" She inhales slowly, almost ashamed to have to explain this to me. "No, there will not be a next time, because you'll be dead."

I shake my head, taken aback. "Erizelda, I don't think you understand how much the Gamemakers are bound to love me. In fact, they'll love me so much that they'll just have to save my entire alliance, or risk public outrage. And as you and I both know, they hate public outrage." Seeing another opportunity to offer her a better deal, I say, "So, what do you think? Trio of Awesome?"

She grips the paintbrush so tightly that her knuckles turn white, but she calmly places it back into the cup of water, and brings her beautiful gaze up to meet mine. "No, Glen. I don't think _you _understand, you delusional, inbred idiot." Raising her manicured hand, she extends her fingers in an expression of annoyance, her stormy blue eyes boring into me with uncomfortable intensity. "There can only be one. And you have to fight for it. If you expect the Gamemakers to let you out alive solely because they like you, then you will die. I knew you were a moron when I first met you, but it takes some mighty strong stupidity to reach the level you're at." Her hand falls to her side, and she returns her attention to her artwork. "Now leave. If you don't, I swear I will call the guards in to haul you away."

I back away from her with my hands up, miffed by her rude tone. "You're going to regret this, Erizelda," I say calmly. "You missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime."

With a sneer, she answers, "Oh, I'm sure I did. I'll just wallow in my self-pity for the entirety of my time in the arena. Just you watch, Glen."

I nod. "Yeah. You will."

She rolls her eyes and, sighing, lets her head drop forward. "Leave."

I sulk out of the room, trying to appear less let-down than I actually feel. How could she just deny me like that? I mean… look at me. Look at Pagnotta. We are a dream-team! And if we added more people, we'd be even more of a dream-team. I don't understand how she can see me and Pagnotta, in all of our glory, and turn us down like that! No human in their right mind would ever do that!

Maybe she's an alien. It would explain a lot.

But if Erizelda doesn't want to join us, then maybe I should ask the District Eleven guy if he wants to be in out group. He looks smart and capable, so I'm sure he'll see the benefit of joining my alliance. I think I'll call our alliance "Dream Team". It's pretty self-explanatory.

I could also approach the District Ten guy, since he seems pretty cool. And that would mean joining with the District Eleven girl, who also looks strong. Man, this alliance will be awesome.

Unfortunately, my thoughts are interrupted by a faint, yet visceral scream that sets me teeth on edge.

Immediately afterwards, I feel a shockwave pass through the ground, through my feet and up my spine.

What was that?

What kind of thing can cause that sort of impact?

Well, lots of things, I guess. But inside of a hotel?

I keep walking towards the lobby, wondering if I'll run into any of my other potential allies, when two uniformed guards sidestep into the hallway, stopping me in my tracks.

"Male of District Nine, we request that you turn back now. At this time, the lobby is off-limits."

"What?" I ask, gesturing down to the end of the hallway, where I can see the arching pillars of the entryway. "The lobby is right there. Why can't I go?"

"Male of District Nine, we request-"

I try to push past them, but they are unyielding. I just want to see the lobby, what's the big deal?

As I struggle against the man on the left, his arm slips away, and I catch a glimpse of the lobby floor. Normally it's white, but… now, there's red everywhere. Literally everywhere.

"What happened?" I whisper, so shocked that I barely register that the men are guiding me back down the hallway.

"There was an accident," one of them says. "You should be allowed to return to your room within the next two hours. Until then, content yourself with the provided recreational activities."

They keep guiding me away, and I keep walking, too shocked to protest.

I am now sure that there had been a person at the center of the red. Mangled, broken, but a person nonetheless.

I can't make sense of the ugly images in my head.

What happened?

* * *

**Secondary Gamemaker Amethyst Ithaca**

* * *

My interlaced fingers tremble against the table, and I cower away from Icarus' voice. In these past eleven months, I have never seen him this angry, or this upset.

"I already knew he was off," the Head Gamemaker cries, his icy blue eyes wide with suppressed rage. "But I didn't think he was a _fucking _sociopath!"

I cringe. I've never even heard Icarus swear, and I don't fail to grasp the implications of him resorting to crass language.

The tiny man cowers away from Icarus' imposing frame, clutching his notepad with white fingers. "Sir, I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but please remember, I am nothing more than the messenger."

Icarus steps back, slamming his eyes shut, and runs both of his hands through his hair. "Yeah, sorry." He lets out a low sigh. "Tell me, what actions have been taken thus far to contain him? To protect the other tributes? To contact the Avox's family?" Even though he's making a concerted effort to keep his voice even, he's still visibly shaking. Whether from anger or fear, I can no longer tell.

The tiny man shakes his head. "I-I cannot say, sir. So far, I… I don't believe any action has been taken. After all, you are in charge."

With a mirthless smirk, Icarus places his hands on the round table, his features made gaunt by the harsh overhead lights. "So I am." He pauses, obviously thinking, and with careful articulation, he says, "Move Linden's sleeping quarters to another room, because he cannot be trusted around his district partner, mentors, or escort. And keep an eye on him." Icarus looks up, his gaze impossibly sharp, and his voice rises with barely-contained rage. "He currently poses an unchecked danger to the other tributes. I expect this to be taken care of."

"But sir," the tiny man says, "what exactly-"

"If he so much as frowns at another tribute," Icarus says, his voice back under control, "I want him taken _out_. Do. You. Understand?"

The tiny man nods profusely, and types something into the notepad. "Will… Will that be all, sir?"

Icarus shakes his head, though I can't tell if it's as an answer or merely in distress. "If she has any surviving family, let them know about… the accident. But don't be blunt about it. Respect the fact that they just lost a loved one. And tell Ophelia that I need to see her as soon as humanly possible. As Director of Security, she needs to know what's going on." He exhales through his nose and rests his forehead against his entwined hands. "That will be all."

When the messenger leaves, I let out a pent-up sigh. The tension melts away, leaving behind a residue of awkward silence as Archibald, Bree and I are left staring at Icarus' stooped form.

"Sir," I begin, not entirely sure how to continue. "Are you… alright?"

He lets out a painfully grating laugh and rests the side of his face on the table. "I am perfectly fine, Amethyst. Why ever would you ask such a thing?"

Archibald, my fellow Secondary Gamemaker, pushes back from the table, his effeminate eyes nervously darting back and forth. "If you don't mind, Icarus, I shall excuse myself."

Icarus makes no detectible movement, so Archibald takes it as his cue to silently escape the backlit room.

Bree, the other Secondary Gamemaker, follows close behind.

Yet I remain, concerned for this fragile man left before me. "Icarus, when was the last time you slept?"

He brings himself to a full sitting position and shrugs pathetically, eyes emptied of emotion and now left hollow. Now that he's set his face like stone, unmoving, I can get a good glimpse of the garish, dark circles under his eyes, and compassion wells up within me. "I don't know. A while ago."

I lean back in my chair. "Perhaps you should consider getting some sleep. Or at least taking a nap."

His gaze rises to meet mine. "Between you and Spicer, I swear. You're worse than my mother." A glimmer of revived humor shines in his eyes, though it quickly dies out.

"Where is Spicer, anyways?"

Icarus closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I gave her the night off. She's earned it."

I drop my shoulders and give him a long, evaluative stare. "You deserve a night off just as much as she does, sir."

Of all things, he laughs. "Give me a break, Amethyst. I have a job to do. I have people to boss around. And because one of my tributes is a cold-hearted psychopath who can't even wait for the arena to start killing, I'm not having the best of days. I can't just take a break. We're too close to the deadline, too close to the moment of truth." But even as he says that, I can see the edges of his resolve wavering.

"Once your debrief Ophelia, you should really go to bed," I urge, giving him a hopeful smile. "Archibald, Bree and I have it covered. I know you don't trust us, but we can handle the situation. Really, we can. And you, of all people, need a break."

He glares at me with dead, sleep-deprived eyes. "It's not that I don't trust you, Amethyst, it's just that… there's too much at stake. I need to be here."

"Go to bed, Icarus," I say, my voice firm. "All of your problems will still be here in the morning, just as you left them. I promise."

For a moment it seems like he will argue against me, but instead, his shoulders drop in defeat. "Fine, fine. I'll debrief Ophelia. Then I'll go to bed. And then you're in charge." Looking down at his hands, a thin smile crosses his lips. "And that's when the real fun begins."

* * *

**So, yeah. That Linden kid. *cough* **

**Sorry for the wait. I'm currently going through a minor personal crisis, so I apologize for any future sporadic updates. I'm doing my best to keep to a semi-weekly schedule, but no promises. **


	23. Prove Your Worth

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Training Day Three**

* * *

**Erizelda Morrison, District Eight Female**

* * *

The ceiling is made of an intricate rubber and metal mesh, designed for both structural strength and sound-proofing. But today, on our last day of training, it looks like a cavern, and I'm beginning to feel claustrophobic. This afternoon, we tributes will demonstrate out knowledge to the Head Gamemakers, they'll give us our scores, tonight we'll have our interviews, and tomorrow… the Game begins.

Holy crap, is it that close already?

I should be fine. No, I _will _be fine. I'm in the Career pack, I'm capable of throwing knives, and… and _what_? I don't think I'll ever be fully ready to go out and kill people, or defend myself from an attacker, or kill a muttation, or find food and water when there may be none at all.

I wonder what the arena will be like? A desert? A lake? A lava field? A jungle? Tunnels? Glaciers? An ocean, dotted with islands? The anticipation is killing me. I just want to know, because if I knew, then maybe I'd stand a better chance of survival. After all, knowing is half the battle.

But it's not like the training stations offer any insight to the possible structure of the arena. Flora, fauna, knots, fire, weapons, they're all totally generic. Except for the physics station, but I have no idea how that could possibly apply, so I won't waste my time or effort trying to guess the impossible answer to an impossible question. Maybe I should just walk up to the Head Gamemaker and use my feminine charm to convince him to confide in me. Assuming he likes women, of course.

I just want to know.

"So," I drawl, narrowing my eyes at the bulls-eye. I throw the knife at the target, and it hits the third center ring. "What skills are you going to show the Judges?"

Necali only offers me a shrug. "I'm not sure yet. Depends on what they have set out to use during the judgment session. I'll probably opt for a demonstration of my combat skills." He raises the long sword above his head, and swipes down, slicing through the fabric chest of the training dummy. "But that's a given."

I play with the bottom edge of my dress, rolling the light yellow fabric between my fingers. "Hmm."

"Throw some knives, slash some dummies, maybe tie a rope noose. To make an impression."

Reaching up, I brush the back of my fingers across his cheek. "You should have no trouble with that." I grin, biting the inside of my lip just enough to show a bit of my teeth. Not obvious, but not too subtle, either.

He gives me a wry smile, placing his hand over mine.

I know men. In fact, I've known many men. The looks that Necali gives me… they aren't looks of love. They don't even constitute infatuation. His eyes hold something closer to fascination, or maybe even a snide sort of self-satisfaction. Either way, I am entirely sure that he doesn't love me. But at least he's willing to tolerate my presence, spending time with me and making fake romantic gestures. Fake or not, I adore the attention, and anything is better than being alone. Plus, it gives me a good excuse to stare at his face all day.

"Hey, lovebirds," Stellar calls, ruining the moment.

I let out a sigh. Narrowing my eyes, I let a hardened edge enter my voice. "What?"

"Put your claws away," she says, rolling her eyes. "I just wanted to know what Dear Leader had in mind, in terms of our bloodbath strategy. I mean, we're going to have to talk about it sooner or later. Might as well be sooner."

Necali gives a slight nod, his dirty blonde hair bobbing with the movement. "This is true." He throws a glance over at the trainers, who have congregated in the corner, probably discussing the game plan for us tributes and how we'll be judged. "We can talk about it during dinner. Right now, we have to focus on our Training Scores."

As he speaks, a wave of cold fear washes through me, making the hairs on my neck and arms stand on end. I truly hope that I've learned enough in the past three days to make a good impression on the Gamemakers. If I haven't, well… it will make winning a whole lot more difficult.

* * *

**Nemo Dedecus, District Four Male**

* * *

Anxiety rests in my gut as I sit at the edge of the training room, contemplating the choices laid out in front of me. I know what I should do, and I know what I want to do. They are not the same thing.

As much as I hate to admit it, the trainer had a point. I only have one district partner, and even if she is a bitch, I'm better off having her as my ally than my enemy. But that means talking to her. Without clawing her eyes out. Which may not be possible.

What do I have to lose, though? My life, I suppose. But the time to swallow my pride is now.

Waverly stands at the opposite side of the room, learning something about animals alongside Stellar, following up on what she learned yesterday about dangerous reptiles. _Come on, Nemo, now or never._

I cross the room, undeterred by my mounting doubts, and tap Waverly on the shoulder. She turns, and upon seeing me, her lips warp into a sneer. Stellar laughs at my presence, the sound quick and derisive, but she graciously decides to walk to another station, apparently to give us an iota of privacy.

"And just what do _you_ want?" Waverly asks, her greenish gray eyes cold and piercing. "I already have enough problems to deal with today, Dedecus."

I bite back the insults that rise to the tip of my tongue and miraculously manage to keep my voice level. "I think we'd be better off as allies than rivals. So, I wanted to propose that you and I set aside our differences and join forces."

Her mouth falls open with disbelief, and she laughs. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Even after two and a half days of hate?"

I meet her gaze and give a concessional nod. "Yes."

"Oh? Alright, then." Clasping her hands together, she leans in close. A little too close. "Say please."

Here we go.

I draw a deep breath then let out a sigh, my shoulders falling with the exhalation. "Please."

"Pretty please with a cherry on top."

I narrow my eyes, not entirely sure if I should even be wasting my time on her. She obviously acknowledges that she's in the position of power, and is choosing to milk it for all it's worth. "Pretty please with a cherry on top."

Her lips twist into a cruel smirk. "Good. Now say you're sorry."

"Sorry for what?" I say, feeling the frustration surge underneath my skin.

"You know what," she spits.

I pause and take a moment to disregard my pride, shoving my bruised ego to the back of my mind. "Fine. I'm sorry for bringing up a topic solely because I knew it would make you uncomfortable. I was out of line."

Waverly's smile remains, but the edges soften, if only a little. "Damn right you were. But, I accept your apology." She crosses her arms, and her smile fades completely. A beat of silence passes before she says, "I… I guess I'm sorry about what I said, too. It seems I misjudged you." Quietly, she adds, "And I kinda started it, so. Yeah."

Allowing myself a grin, I say, "I understand. And apology accepted." I nod in Stellar's direction. "I hope I'm not screwing up the friendship-thing you guys have going?"

Waverly shakes her head. "Nah, not really. She never understood why I was mad at you, anyways. At this point, I think she's indifferent towards you, to be honest." She shrugs. "I definitely know she doesn't hate you, if that makes you feel any better."

I let out a sigh, nodding. "Good. Indifference is good."

Indifference means that there's the possibility for improvement. And as far as the Pack goes, I know that Waverly and Stellar are the most reliable allies I could possibly have. Necali is so focused on Erizelda that he is virtually useless to anyone else, Erizelda herself is an outer-district tribute and therefore weak, if not manipulative, while Alpha is violently unstable, and Trance is… well, Trance. He's nice, he's bearable, but beyond that, I don't place much faith in him.

In any case, I'm glad to finally have a district partner who doesn't hate my guts.

* * *

**Wade Odinshoot, District Eight Male**

* * *

"We should ask him," Taun says, nudging my shoulder. "His district partner isn't with him. Now's the perfect chance."

He's right. The kid from District Three sits over at the trap station, alone, learning about all myriad of things, while his oh-so-loving district partner stands at the other end of the room, speaking in low tones with one of the trainers. This is the best chance I'll get all day.

"Alright," I say. "Do you want to accompany me, or should I go alone?"

Taun thinks for a moment, placing his hand over his mouth. "Rumor might notice if we both go. Maybe it should just be you."

"Sounds good. Be back in a minute."

The District Three boy looks up when I seat myself on a swivel chair right beside him. "Hey, Zeno."

"Hi," he says, a little uncertain. "Can I help you?"

I nod. "Actually, you can. See, Taun and I were wondering if you wanted to be in our alliance."

Zeno's eyes light up. "Really?"

"Yes." I swivel the chair around to face him completely. "So, what do you say?"

Something shines in his eyes, and it looks a lot like fear. "Rumor probably wouldn't like that."

"Last time I checked, Rumor doesn't make your decisions. You do." I lean my head to the side and expectantly raise my eyebrows. "So, I'll ask again: what do you say?"

Zeno gives me a small smile. "I'd like to be your ally."

Standing up from the chair, I offer him a handshake, and he accepts.

"I'm glad you think so," I say. "Taun and I were working on our arena strategy, so if you want to contribute to our conversation, you're welcome to. But if you want to keep learning about traps, that's cool too."

He follows my lead and stands up from his chair. "No, I think I'll go with you. I've already learned all I can from this station, anyways."

We return to Taun, who immediately begins asking Zeno all sorts of questions, mostly about personal preferences, but some about knowledge and capabilities.

"What's your favorite color?"

Zeno thinks for a moment, before answering, "Blue."

"What's your favorite animal?"

"I don't really know. We don't have many animals at all in District Three."

"What do you know about technology?"

"That's a difficult question to answer, because there are lots of different types of technology. I am good at building things, though."

Taun nods. "Oh. What's it like in District Three?"

With a sigh, Zeno answers, "I don't like it. It's dirty and polluted, and our sky is usually either gray or brown, rarely ever blue. Ash coats everything, and the factories are constantly pumping out smoke and all manner of particulates. I'm surprised more people from Three don't die of asthma or lung cancer."

"That bad, huh?" I ask, for once happy to have been born in District Eight. "I didn't think-"

I'm interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and I turn to meet the glacial stare of Rumor Cobalt. Not that I expected any different.

"What are you doing with my ally?" she demands, hand on her hip.

"You mean _my _ally?" I ask, not even attempting to feign innocence.

She scoffs. "No, he's mine."

"Hey, Zeno, who have you allied yourself with?"

Rumor wraps her hand around his arm and sends me a dirty glare. "He's allied with me, now buzz off."

I narrow my eyes and stand tall, having the advantage over her by a half of a foot and about eighty pounds. "Wow, Zeno, you look different today." Fiercely, I continue, "When I ask _him_ a question, I expect _his_ answer. Not yours."

Her lips waver, and her grip on Zeno loosens.

"I am allied with you and Taun," Zeno finally says, taking advantage of her surprise by shying away from her grasp.

With an obviously contrived look of betrayal, she lets her jaw drop as tears well in her eyes. "Zeno, you said you were my ally! What, are you going to go back on your promise to me?"

Looking at her full-on, a surprising fire in his young eyes, Zeno answers, "I never agreed to an alliance with you, and I never _wanted_ an alliance with you. So go away, and stop putting words in my mouth."

The kid's got spirit, I'll give him that.

Rumor steps back, her emotion draining away, leaving behind only a cold, hardened mask. "Oh, really? Fine. But you're going to regret this, Zeno."

"No, I don't think I am."

She gives me a death-glare before retreating into the recesses of the training room.

I smirk. She lost, and I'm sure she's going to hold it against us in the arena. But for now, I'm going to enjoy my victory while I still can.

* * *

**Dominic Monipule, District Five Male**

* * *

I can't believe this.

It's the day before launch, and I still haven't found an ally.

The problem is, most of the alliances have already solidified. Almost everyone is in a group. The only people I can distinctly pick out as loners are Flavia, Cascade, Mariah, Linden, and more recently, Rumor.

So, I guess, since none of them are smart enough to ally with me, I'll just have to sow some discord. There's nothing else fun to do, anyways.

Or maybe I could try to recruit Rumor. After all, she is newly ally-less, and all things considered, she won't get a better ally than me. She is pretty, too, even though she's a total Ice Queen. Who knows, maybe she'll end up being useful in the end. Maybe she'll even sacrifice herself for me. It would definitely be an honorable death, dying in order to help the future victor. Of course, I may end up having to kill her, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

I see her hanging out over at the plant identification table, mashing together a couple of leaves with a white pestle and mortar.

"Hey," I say, taking a seat next to her. I watch her face scrunch up with annoyance, but she remains silent. "What are you making?"

"None of your business," she responds icily.

"Aww, c'mon," I say, holding my arms out wide. "I'm just curious."

Setting the tiny stone bowl on the counter, she says, "And I don't care. Go away."

I let my arms fall. "Don't be like that. We can help each other."

She cocks an auburn eyebrow. "Oh?"

I nod three times. "Yeah. We both need allies, and I can help you get back at Wade, Taun, and Zeno. So, what do you say?"

An unsettling grin plays at the corners of her lips. "Get back at them, you say?"

She places a hand on my chest, almost seductively, before her face falls into a stony mask, and with a sneer, she pushes me off of my chair. My shoulders smack into the ground, and a bright light flashes in my mind when my skull hit's the rubbery floor.

"Don't assume that you know me or my motivations," Rumor says, her thin frame looming over me. "You can't help me, swine. Don't play games."

She then spins on her heels and stalks off, her red hair swaying back and forth with the movement.

_Bitch_, I think to myself. If she wants to waste such a great opportunity, that's her problem. I'll just kill her when we get into the arena, no big deal. Still, I hope none of the other tributes saw that.

One of the trainers approaches me, offering his hand. "You okay?"

I wave him away and stand up on my own. So someone else did see. Crap. "I'm fine. Just hit my head is all."

"You sure?"

I glower at the back of Rumor's head, balling my hands into fists. "Yeah. The District Three girl is just a little more touchy than I originally anticipated. No big deal."

The trainer narrows his eyes. "Alright. Don't try anything else stupid, okay? We don't want to stitch you up the day before launch." His lips pull back with an impossibly blinding grin. "Just be careful, kid."

"Yes, mother," I say, rolling my eyes as I walk away. I know how to handle myself. I don't need his help.

But my plan didn't work. How couldn't it? I don't understand what I did wrong. After all, I offered to help Rumor resolve her issue with her district partner. Isn't that what she wanted? Maybe she wants to take care of him herself? No, that's ridiculous. If given the choice between having my help and not, the only logical answer is to accept my help. It's not even a question.

And yet, she rejected me.

There must be something wrong with her.

* * *

**Selene Briony, District Eleven Female**

* * *

My fingers tap against the table top in rhythm, and I casually glance up at the other tributes. The Careers are spread out across the room, but most of them have this intimidating air about them that prevents anyone else from approaching. Except for the District One guy, Trance. He seems like he'd be fun to talk to, if not a little weird.

"What do you think about the girl from District Seven?" I ask. She sits at the trap station, isolated from everyone else.

Birch raises his eyebrows and shrugs. "She knows what she's doing, I guess. I feel bad for her, having to deal with her district partner and all. Why do you ask?"

I inhale through my nose, pursing my lips. "She doesn't have any allies, does she?"

"Not that I know of, no. She's alone." His keen gaze rests on me. "Why, do you want to ally with her?"

Shrugging, I try to mask my eagerness. "It's just that she knows how to hunt. She hasn't studied anything other than ropes, traps, and small arms during our time here, and I think her skills would be useful to have access to in the arena." I stop drumming my fingers, a little nervous for Birch's response. If he doesn't want her, then she isn't joining. Hopefully all District Seven tributes aren't as crazy as that Linden kid. I don't want to unknowingly invite a sociopath onto our team.

With a nod, Birch stands from his seat. "Alright. If you want to ask her to join, be my guest. Don't expect her to accept, though. She looks proud."

I stand next to him, slightly confused, and surprised that he isn't resisting the idea. "Aren't you going to come with me?"

Shaking his head, he answers, "No. I've been watching her, too. She doesn't like guys all that much, so if you go alone, you have a higher chance of getting her to accept."

I smirk. "How can you tell?"

"I just pay attention." He crosses his arms and heaves a sigh, watching the congregation of trainers as they discuss their supposedly important business. "She has made an effort to avoid the male trainers. If you'll notice, the rope, trap, and small arms stations are all run by women. The one combat trainer she spoke to is a woman. And you may not have detected this, considering you're a girl, but she gives all of us guys a weird glare, like we've done something wrong, even though she's never even spoken with us." He looks back at me. "But those are just my observations. She could be completely different, for all I know."

Wow. Now that I think about it, Birch it entirely right.

"Maybe I should go alone," I concede. "Be back in a bit."

He inclines his head. "Good luck."

I'm probably going to need it.

Carefully, I approach the girl from District Seven, taking a seat beside her at the trap station. "Hello."

She looks up, her dark brown eyes sharp and suspicious. "Hello."

"Your name is Flavia, right?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral. Friendly, but not smothering. Curious, but not obsessive.

She nods. "Yes. And you are?"

"Selene," I answer, holding out my hand. "Selene Briony. District Eleven. I was wondering if you already had an alliance?"

"No, I don't." She purses her lips and looks up at me with a certain hostility that I can't quite understand.

I offer her a hopeful smile. "Well, would you like to join me?"

Her face remains unreadable. "You're with that kid from District Ten, aren't you?"

"Yes."

She averts her eyes, fiddling with a piece of bait on the table. "I don't have much good experience with men." With a slow sigh, she glances up at Birch, who stands at the other side of the room, engaged with one of the other trainers. "What makes him so special?"

I shrug. "He's smart, he's observant, he's strong. He's level-headed. And he respects women."

Coolly, Flavia responds, "Oh? How long have you known him? One day? Two?" I frown at the skeptical tone in her voice. "You don't know anything about him. And placing your trust in a stranger is a one-way ticket to a painful, untimely death."

"That's one of the many curses of the Hunger Games, though," I counter, furrowing my brow. "You have to trust strangers to bring you farther in the game than you could have made it on your own. Really, we would rather have you than not. But it's up to you."

Her eyes become distant and her expression becomes stony. For a few moments she stares down at her hands, thinking, thoughts running across her face like birds swirling in an updraft.

Finally, I sense a change in her demeanor, and she looks up at me with a warm gleam in her gaze. "I suppose you're right. Thank you for asking. I will gladly join your alliance."

My face stretches with an involuntary smile, and I hold out my hand, which she accepts with a rough handshake. "Welcome to the team."

* * *

**Alpha Revere, District One Female**

* * *

"Tributes!" a tall, fit male trainer calls, beckoning us all over to him. "We have an important announcement. Please, give your full attention to Miss Devine."

A pretty, petite woman steps forward, a ridiculous smile on her cake-make-up face. I could snap her weak frame like a toothpick.

"When you are called," she calls in a shrill voice, "please pass through these double doors, and announce your name and district. The Head Gamemaker will evaluate each one of you individually. Your performance here will determine what training score you receive, so for your own sake, do your best, and don't let your nerves get the better of you. Good luck to you all!"

She disappears, only to be replaced by the most metrosexual man I've ever seen.

"Alright," he lilts, "we will be going in numerical order, starting with District One. Ladies first."

I cross my arms in front of my chest, tapping my fingers against my forearms. This should be good.

He raises a blue-tinted hand, gesturing to the wide, white double doors beside him. "Alpha Revere, you're up first! Knock 'em dead!"

Oh, I will.

Everyone's eyes come to rest upon me, but I don't care. I'll give them my best, and that should be enough. If it's not, well, I'll just prove them wrong. It's not like I'm here to get a good score, anyways. I'm here for the fighting, for the thrill. I'm here to inflict the pain, listen to the screams, and watch the blood flow. And if I can look good while doing it, all the better. If not, no skin off my back.

I shove the white doors open, revealing a dark interior hallway with a brightly lit room at the very end. My footsteps echo between the tiled floor, walls, and ceiling, making it sound like many people walking all at once.

But in the end, it's just me.

I enter the training room, the overly-bright fluorescent lights jabbing at my eyes as I scan the audience of Gamemakers. A couple of normal looking people, mixed in with a hodge podge of weirdos. Of course, I expected nothing less from the Capitol, but still. One of them, a relatively young guy with bright eyes, leans on the railing, twirling what looks like a toothpick between his surprisingly unmanicured fingers.

I give a slight grin, wondering what kind of formalities these people expect me to follow. No matter what their expectations, though, I won't comply. "Alpha Revere, District One."

The man gestures to the rest of the room. "Sally forth, Miss Revere." He leans on his elbows, intertwining his fingers. "You have five minutes."

On the weapons rack, I spy a butcher's knife, which is exactly what I'm looking for.

Interestingly enough, they also have a fire-starting table. Which gives me an idea.

I take the butcher knife, cross over to the fire station, wipe the metal down with a slow-burning petroleum product, and set my weapon ablaze. The flames have such a beautiful, almost calming effect, especially since the heat-resistant rubber handle will protect my hand from any heat that might carry through the metal. Not to mention that it'll superheat the knife, giving me the ability to inflict even more damage on the other tributes.

Clenching the handle, I stare at the training dummy for a moment, envisioning a face on the smooth, featureless head. Surprisingly, the face I see belongs to Stellar. How interesting.

Seeing her face on the dummy, oddly enough, makes me want to kill it even more.

I raise the blade above my head and hack away, fake blood pouring out of the figure, the fake skin underneath the fabric peeling off in gelatinous chunks. First the neck, then the torso, then the arms and face. The dummy's outermost cloth finally catches fire after a minute or so. I love fire.

"Huh," I hear the man say. "Clever. Bradley! We're going to need a fire extinguisher!"

A man comes running out of a side room, clutching a red canister of super-cooled nitrogen. The dummy is soon awash in white fog, and the orange tongues are all smothered. Too bad. I was enjoying the show.

I throw the knife down, no longer interested since the flames have all sputtered out.

"I'm done," I say, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

The man nods. "Alright. Thank you, Miss Revere. You may leave."

As I flounce off, I wistfully stare at the dummy's ashen, damaged exterior. And to think, in less than a day, I could be doing that to real people.

I can hardly wait.

* * *

**Necali Reinerston, District Two Male**

* * *

I push past the double doors, acting more confident than I feel.

But I shouldn't be worried. I am one of the most well-trained tributes this year, if not _the_ most well-trained, and I know what to do.

I got this.

As I emerge from the hallway into a white room lined with different skill stations, I feel the scrutinizing gaze of the Gamemakers as they all look down upon me from the balcony area. They are watching my every movement; I must be precise, to the point. I can't waste their time. But above all, I must be brutal, and prove my strength as a competitor.

Turning towards them, I see that most are dressed like normal Capitolites, if there is such a thing, while three or four are dressed like any district citizen, if not a little classier. How odd. I expected them all to dress like paint-afflicted idiots.

I give a mechanical bow. "Necali Reinerston. District Two."

One of the more normal-looking men holds his arms out, almost in expectation. "Excellent. Please, Mr. Reinerston, do your worst. You've got five minutes."

With a nod, I allow myself a quick scan of the room. Nine separate skill stations, all of which I know at least something about. The weapons rack and the strength station appear the most promising, though.

Grabbing five of the throwing knives, I take a calming breath, letting the air fill my lungs, assuaging my haywire nerves, even though I know that I really shouldn't be nervous at all. I've trained for practically my entire life, just for this. It's almost ridiculous to even consider the possibility of failure, with all that's at stake. Laurent, Aldephie, and Alessandra. I need to win, so that they can live in safety. And after everything I've sacrificed, everything I've gone through, losing is just not an option.

I line my sights up with the silver target, exhale slowly, and use my right hand to throw the first projectile. It hits the second-to-center ring. Not too shabby.

I use my right hand once more, and the knife hits a little closer to center, though it doesn't actually strike the bulls-eye.

For the remaining three knives, I switch to my left hand. All three hit dead center, just barely missing each other on the target. Now that's what I'm talking about.

Next, I take a longsword from the weapon rack, searching for the blade's center of balance, and once I find it, I set my sights on the fabric training dummy that's been propped up on the edge of the blue mat.

With the sword, I make quick work of the fake enemy, careful to maintain my form as I make one quick slice across the stomach, another across the neck, then a thrust through the heart. The dummy now finds itself very much dead. Red cotton and crimson rice grains pour from the injuries, indicating that I have indeed landed a critical hit. Excellent.

Placing the weapon down, I walk over to the strength station, and proceed to lift a one-hundred-pound bag of sand and throw it five feet or so without much trouble. I am stronger than I look, after all. Before I can lift another, a bell sounds from the ceiling, marking the end of my session.

"Thank you Mr. Reinerston," the man says, leaning on the glass bannister. "You may leave."

I give another bow, hoping that my performance was enough to warrant a good score. It should have been.

The leader of the pack always needs to earn a high score if they intend to lead for long.

* * *

**Rumor Cobalt, District Three Female**

* * *

I can't believe that District Eight jerk stole my ally. Zeno was mine!

The blade feels heavy in my hand, and I chuck it at the wall. It doesn't hit the target, but I don't care. I don't even know how to use throwing knives. I just needed to throw something.

Now my plans are all ruined. I have no intelligent people to bide my time with, no subservient meat-shield, and no one to do my bidding. I will destroy Wade Odinshoot if it's the last thing I do.

The buzzer dings, and I watch the District Two male walk out of the hallway, chin held high, looking all self-satisfied. I wonder how well he performed? Probably not as well as he thinks. I wonder how well his girlfriend will do? I hope she fails. I hope they all fail.

At the entrance of the double doors, the blue-skinned male trainer looks up from his clipboard and shouts, "Rumor Cobalt!"

My heart leaps in my chest, and I hesitantly walk over to the man, genuinely nervous. "Yes?"

"Please proceed through these doors. The Head Gamemaker is waiting for you."

I nod slowly, working to keep my breathing steady and my nervousness at bay. This is my chance to prove myself. This is my chance to show Zeno, and Wade, just how sorry they should be for getting on my bad side.

The private room is surprisingly large, with nine separate stations lining the walls. I see a number of men and women seated on a balcony that overlooks the space, while one surprisingly normal-looking young man stands separate from them, leaning on the glass banister with an intent gaze. He's probably the Head Gamemaker.

I stop directly in front of him and give a slight bow. "Rumor Cobalt, District Three."

The man gestures to the separate stations. "Knock yourself out."

The quality of his voice surprises me. It isn't particularly annoying or unusual, but I suppose I was expecting someone who sounded more like a serial killer. He just sounds like a normal guy.

I nod, and look around the room. Plants, traps, Newtonian mechanics, weapons, medicine, fire, strength, stealth, and camouflage. An interesting little medley, but I think I'll have to go for the weapons rack, and add in some plants and physics while I'm at it.

From the rack, I choose the electrified rod and crack open the wiring box, much to the Gamemakers' apparent surprise. I spend a moment examining the circuit, before disconnecting the battery and rearranging the resistors, taking most of them out but leaving a few in to keep from short-circuiting the weapon. Close the parallel paths, leave the series path closed, red wire to the red port, blue wire to the blue port, and I'm done. This rewired rod is much more effective. It may even be deadly.

I walk over to the table of plants. I put on a pair of gloves and pick up a sprig of wolf's bane, making sure to hold it up high so that the Gamemakers can see me. Once I'm sure they have, I proceed to grind the plant up between my fingers and slather the paste-like substance onto the end of my prod. If the electricity doesn't kill them, the wolf's bane will certainly put a dampener on their day.

The dummy, my target, stands in the center of the room, and it almost feels like it's staring at me with cloth eyes. _This is a tribute, _I think to myself. _The enemy. The soon-to-be-dead enemy._ That doesn't help much, but it allows me to concentrate.

Still wearing the gloves, I approach the dummy, electrified rod held high, and strike the dummy's neck, legs, and arms. Finally, I jam the rod into the dummy's chest and flick the switch. Nothing seems to happen, and for a moment I worry that the Gamemakers won't understand what I've accomplished, what I've created.

Luckily, though, after a few seconds of exposure to the electrical current, the cloth literally bursts into flame, and I pull the prod away. Orange tongues lick up the dummy's chest, consuming it, leaving only blackened fabric and melted stuffing in their wake.

"Not another fire," the Head Gamemaker mutters, and three men emerge from a side room, one carrying a fire extinguisher, one carrying a broom and dustpan, and one carrying a new dummy. He looks to me and inclines his head. "Thank you, Ms. Cobalt. You may leave."

Once again, I give a slight bow. "Thank you."

Smiling, I carefully peel off the gloves and dump them in the trash on my way out. I hope that they liked my little show. They should. It's probably the best they're gonna get. But even if they didn't like it, I know I outdid myself. And that's what matters.

* * *

**Alder Haynes, District Six Male**

* * *

The tributes from Districts One, Two, Three, Four, and Five all pass into the hallway, and reemerge with either uneasy frowns or victorious grins. Since they're calling ladies first, Relly goes before me, and unfortunately, she's one of the people who comes back with an uneasy frown.

"How did it go?" I ask, but she merely shrugs, trying to hold back tears.

After a moment, she manages to mutter, "Not very well." Her lower lip quivers. "I tried to use the slingshot, but I was nervous so I kept missing the bulls-eye. I hit the outer-rings of the target a couple of times, but I don't think it was enough." She sniffles, and crosses her arms in an attempt to comfort herself.

This is the first time since I met Relly that she isn't wearing a smile. "I'm sure you did fine," I say, feeling the unusual desire to console her. "And if you didn't, just prove them wrong."

With a tiny laugh, she wipes her eyes and looks at me with a weak smile. "Be careful, Alder. I'm beginning to think you don't totally hate me."

I smirk. "Don't push it."

On the other side of the room, the doorman cries, "Alder Haynes," and I know that it's my turn to go show my skills to the people who would gladly kill me if it meant an increase in ratings.

Sighing, I say, "Be back in a minute," and without a fuss I push through the gray double doors, walk down the dimly lit hallway, and find myself in a spacious room lined with numerous different skill stations, overlooked by a wide balcony. A tired-looking man, who I assume to be the Head Gamemaker, rests his eyes upon me, and raises his eyebrows with expectation.

"Alder Haynes, District Six," I say, not bothering with the bow.

The man inclines his head. "You have five minutes. _Impress_ me."

My first target is the medical table, where I find a number of different tools, namely gauze, needles of varying thickness, a scalpel, rubbing alcohol, iodine, peroxide, thread, sutures, clamps, and painkillers. No salves, but all in all, not a bad collection.

"I need an injury to heal," I call, and the Head Gamemaker directs someone to bring me a medical dummy.

Some lady in a white coat carts out my proxy patient, dumps it on the floor beside me, and immediately leaves, probably to ensure that my evaluation is as independent as possible.

I kneel down and ensure that the "patient" doesn't have any spinal injuries, which they don't, so I lie them out on their back and inspect each of their limbs for injuries. First and foremost, there is a huge gash through the inner left thigh, cutting straight through the great saphenous vein and a number of the tributaries. Luckily, the cut narrowly missed the superficial femoral artery, so the "patient" is less likely to "die" while I work on them.

I pour rubbing alcohol on my hands, foregoing gloves since they've have always made my work more imprecise, and I proceed to dig into the gelatinous fake skin, searching for the receded halves of the vein. When I finally find them, I pull them together and place a clamp over the division, setting to work with the thinnest needle I can find. Unfortunately, they don't seem to have provided any sort of disintegrating thread, so I'll have to make do with the super-thin string, which is nearly invisible even in full light. The needle takes about fifteen seconds to thread, during which I know I am unnecessarily wasting time. I pour rubbing alcohol over these also, since I have no idea whether or not they came in sterile packaging or not.

I move the clamp in order to expose half of the cut, and proceed to check for clotting. Finding none, I proceed to sew the first half of the vein together, remaining ever-careful to keep from sewing the two sides together.

Even though it's delicate work, I can only spend a minute on the vein, because I am running out of time for my session and I know that, in real life, the "patient" would bleed to death if I took any longer. So I tie a tiny knot and leave the vein be, hoping that the sewing job is strong enough to hold. With a sterile cloth, I swab the inside of the injury with peroxide, and after waiting ten seconds, I sweep away the bloody foam with a second sterile cloth. Carefully lining up the two sides, I use my left hand to pinch the halves together, whilst stitching with my right.

Dig a half inch deep, pull, dig a quarter inch deep, pull, dig a half inch deep, pull, dig a quarter inch deep, pull. Within a minute, the gash is sealed, and I wipe the surface down with rubbing alcohol, then peroxide. No antibiotic salve was provided to me, so I rush over to the plant station and grab some aloe vera and olive leaves.

Upon returning to the "patient", I slather on a liberal amount of aloe goop, and crush the olive leaves enough to produce a few drops of semi-antibiotic liquid, which I quickly rub into the wound. I wrap two layers of gauze over the now-stitched slice, and manage to just stitch it up before the end-time buzzer sounds across the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Haynes," the man says, drumming his fingers against the balcony. "You may go."

On my way out, one of the attendants offers me a paper towel to wipe my blood- and salve-covered hands, which I accept without a smile. I hope that was enough to impress them, but I doubt it matters much, anyways.

I'm not coming home alive.

* * *

**Linden Cooper, District Seven Male**

* * *

The Gamemakers look down on me with harsh glares and expectant eyes. One man stands apart from the rest, his gaze made purely of ice.

"Linden Cooper, District Seven," I say, neglecting the bow. I bow to no one.

The man who stands apart, presumably the Head Gamemaker, maintains his glare without any detectible movement. Finally, he breaks his silence with, "Proceed." Voice sharp, he adds, "You have five minutes."

From the weapons rack, I take the lumber axe and turn to face the upright training dummy. Its cloth face stares at me, the unfeeling threads more alive than that bitch avox. She got what she deserved. Even so, her death was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to what I will do to the girls from the other districts. I will rip out their throats, hack them to pieces, splatter their blood across the walls. I will slaughter every last one of them, and I will wear a smile as I do it, because they deserve death, too. They are the ones who killed Daphne. I see that bitch career in all of them, so superior and feminine and fucking _dead_.

They're all dead.

I step towards the dummy, my knuckles slowly turning white as I grip the axe handle tighter and tighter. She needs to _die._

With a cry, I run at the cloth figure, raising the weapon above my head, honing in on the crook between the neck and left shoulder. I swing the blade down, and it slices through the khaki cloth and into the gelatinous skin. A waterfall of red cotton and sand grains pours out onto the ground, covering my shoes, but I continue hacking, unfazed. This is my honor, my duty. Avenge my sister, because she can't avenge herself.

Hack, hack, hack. The cloth peels away and the gelatin falls off in chunks, exposing the wooden supports meant to represent her bones, and the axe blade comes hammering down, splintering the shiny surface and splitting the bones into nothing more than toothpicks. Ribs, arms, neck, skull. All shattered.

I let out a roar and smash the blunt edge of the blade into the side of the dummy, toppling it over, and when it hit's the ground, it breaks apart completely.

Good work, if I do say so myself, especially considering I killed her in less than thirty seconds. An expedient, brutal performance. Exactly what the Gamemakers are looking for.

"Another," I say, glancing up at the steely-eyed man.

He sneers, and waves in a pair of helpers. Both male. The one on the left is rather attractive, so I offer him a wry smirk. In return, he merely gives me a curt nod before hurrying off with his companion. Eh. My presence in the Capitol serves a higher purpose, anyways.

I set my sights on the new dummy, and a thread of scarlet works its way into my vision, flooding the entire room with a bloody twinge, my own rage made visible. Descending upon the wooden framed figure, I completely destroy it, just like the other.

"Another," I growl, my voice heavy with exertion.

"We've seen enough," the Head Gamemaker says, pushing back from the railing, the sneer still visible on his face. "Linden Cooper, you are dismissed."

I nod, and replace the axe on the rack.

Faced by their utter silence, I decide it's better to leave without any form of goodbye.

As I re-enter the training area through the double doors, one of the assistants gives me a friendly nod. I nod back. After all, he should remember the moment he saw the victor-to-be, before I went on to avenge Daphne and conquer the entire arena.

* * *

**Head Gamemaker Icarus Castillo**

* * *

I arrive a little late to the meeting, much to Spicer's chagrin.

"You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago!" she scream-whispers, whacking me on the shoulder with her clipboard.

I playfully swat her arm away. "Cut it out, Spicer. I took a few minutes to take a nap. Give me a break."

Her frown softens, and she looks around the well-lit room. "Oh. Well, anyways, everyone else is here." Bree, Amethyst, and Archibald, my three Secondary Gamemakers, are accompanied by Ferdinand, Sofia, Mara, Laurent, and Sora, my five Tertiary Gamemakers, and all of them have an air of nervous expectation about them.

Grinning, I seat myself at the head of the table and hold out my hands. "Shall we begin?"

Sofia is the first to speak. "Alpha Revere's performance was… unnerving, to say the least."

"The fire was a nice touch, though," Laurent interjects. "And she obviously knows how to use a butcher knife."

Sora flips her mahogany hair over her shoulder. "I liked her attitude."

I tap the table twice, and Alpha's virtual profile appears underneath the surface. Her high-definition, pixilated face stares up at me, brutal and animalistic. I double tap the training score category, and enter a 9. "She isn't the strongest, but she obviously won't hold anything back in the arena. Agreed?"

All eight of my contributing companions nod.

Bree rests her cheek against her hand. "Trance Berrill seems a little… odd, don't you think?"

"Yeah," I admit. "His paint-camouflage session from the other day was weird. But he knows how to use a blade, he's strong, and he isn't an idiot. I say give him a 9."

Sofia gives me a disbelieving glare, her silver curls bouncing with a scoff. "But he's not all there, Icarus!"

"He's 'there' enough to get a 9. Moving on." I switch the profile to Stellar Andrews' smiling, radiant face. "Any outstanding opinions on District Two?"

Ferdinand shrugs. "She was so-so. The gymnastics were nice, but I wasn't particularly impressed by her combat skills."

"This is an accurate assessment," I say, staring at her pixilated smile. "So, an 8, then?"

"Agreed."

"Sounds good."

I enter the data and move on to the next tribute. "Necali Reinerston's performance, to me, was the most impressive of all the tributes. Any thoughts?"

"He's obviously been training for quite a while," Archibald says, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose. "His handling of the long sword was quite surprising, especially considering the fact he wields throwing knives with equal adroitness. Not to mention his ambidexterity. I would even go so far as to say he's the strongest Career we have this year. 11."

I shake my head. "His head isn't in the game. 10."

"Necali is the leader of the pack, though! How can you say he doesn't have his head in the game?"

Letting out an annoyed sigh, I say, "Because he has a girlfriend, Archibald, and you know how that always, _always_ ends up."

"But, in comparison to the other tributes-"

"10 is my final answer. How about Rumor Cobalt?"

Amethyst looks up with a smile. "I really enjoyed her performance. I don't know about anyone else, but, I think she earned at least a 6."

"She demonstrated a strong understanding of electrical physics," I say, drumming my fingers on the table. "And a certain degree of physical strength and plant knowledge. 7. Alright?"

No one disagrees, so I move on to the next slide. "Zeno Atticus, the little genius from District Three. I'm actually conflicted about what to give him, so I'd like suggestions."

"He's surprisingly knowledgeable for his age," Mara says, looking down at his picture. "But he's young, he's small, and he's obviously quite shy around people he doesn't know, thus contributing to his relatively poor performance under stress. I think he deserves a 3."

Ferdinand shakes his head. "Like you said, Icarus, he's a genius. The amount of information the kid absorbed in three days, especially about physics, surprised me. I think he earned a 7."

I shrug. "Then I'll give him a 5. Even split. As for Waverly Capri… well. She's quite bright, she knows how to use tridents, she is a quick learner… but her lack of physical strength is concerning." I press my tongue against my teeth and frown. "7?"

"8. Her strengths lie more in the field of understanding and intelligence."

"Point taken. 8, then. Next up is Nemo Dedecus, whom I believe earned a 9 with his strength- and combat-based performance."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Good. Any outstanding opinions on Mariah Cassel?"

"Mariah Cassel, I think, earned a 3," Ferdinand says, stroking his chin. "She's obviously never picked up a blow gun before arriving at the Capitol."

I look around the table, meeting each of my assistants' gazes. "No dissenters? Ok, then. Moving on. Dominic Monipule?"

A few of them laugh, but Bree is the loudest. "He seemed strong during training, but it became apparent during his session that he totally relies upon others to accomplish anything. 3."

With a shrug, I concede the point. "3 sounds accurate. As for Relly Jay…" With a sigh, I lean back in my chair. "Oh, dear. She's a nice girl, but she doesn't actually know much. I think she gets a point for general competence, a point for a good attitude, and a point for learning how to use the slingshot with semi-accuracy. So, a 3."

"I thought she'd get a 2."

I wave my hand dismissively. "Yeah, well, I'm feeling merciful today. What about Alder Haynes?"

"I think he should get a 7," Amethyst says, her light orange hair falling in front of her eyes.

I smirk. "Really? He earned a 5, in my opinion."

Amethyst gives me a sidelong look, ocean blue eyes flickering with something I can't quite place. "But he possesses extensive knowledge of plants, poisons, and field medical wisdom. More so, probably, than the rest of the other tributes combined."

"Yes, but he verges on suicidal. He's not victor material."

Amethyst stares down at her hands, the flicker gone. "Oh. Okay, then. I see where you're coming from."

"Alder Haynes gets a 5. What about Flavia Reeves?"

The group gives a collective shrug. Mara opens her mouth to speak, but Sora beats her to the chase. "Her trap-making skills are indicative of hunting prowess. But beyond the traps, I remained unimpressed."

"Eh," I say, racking my brain for justification of a low or high score. "She's a physically and mentally strong girl. So, 6. Next is…" I fall silent, staring at the picture with simmering hatred, and I know that I won't be able to judge the District Seven male with any semblance of impartiality. "Linden Cooper."

A palpable cold descends upon the room, and everyone gives each other a knowing glance. No one wants to judge the obvious psychopath. No one wants to open up that can of worms.

"Um," Ferdinand begins, unsure of himself, words quivering, "I thought his performance demonstrated great physical discipline and, uh, strength. And we know that he won't have a problem k-killing in the arena."

"This is true," I drawl, staring at the kid's picture with resentment. "8. I think his _performance_ warrants an 8."

"Are… are you sure?"

"Yes," I say, my heavy tone killing any further argument. Giving him such a high score will warn the other tributes, at least. "Next we have Erizelda Morrison."

Laurent leans his elbows on the table and raises his manicured eyebrows. "10. Simply because she's absolutely gorgeous." Of course the pervert would say that. With a purposefully bashful smile, he looks up at me, and says, "On a more serious note, I think she's really worked for it these past few days. She arrived with no useable talents, but after hours of practice, she's really developed her knife-throwing abilities, as well as picked up on a few random survival skills along the way. I say she gets a 6."

I shake my head. "5." To combat Laurent's heated arguing, I explain, "She's versed in manipulation, not strength. Without her Career allies, she'd be nothing. So she gets a 5. Be happy I even gave her that."

Leaning back with a sour expression, Laurent concedes the point. "Fine. But what about her district partner, Wade Odinshoot?"

"He didn't particularly stand out to me, honestly. But he knows how to fight. So… 5?"

"5."

"5 sounds good."

Mara gives me a contemplative stare. "Pagnotta Millet should get at least a 2."

I crinkle my face in confusion. "Why? She didn't do anything. She just hid under a table."

"Actually, no. I heard her whispering something - she was reciting everything she'd learned during the past three days, from tying different kinds of knots to lighting a fire. She just didn't find a very good way to express her knowledge."

"Uh huh. So, you heard it, but I didn't?"

She smiles with feigned innocence. "Or maybe you just weren't paying attention. It wouldn't be the first time."

Rolling my eyes, I rest my cheek on my hand. "Yeah, yeah, fine. I'll take your word for it. Pagnotta gets a 2."

The next profile makes me to laugh so hard that I am forced to bite my tongue to keep from influencing the other Gamemakers' opinions. "And next," I say, stifling a giggle, "is Glen Ackerman."

A collective groan sounds from my audience of assistants, and I have to actively prevent myself from groaning with them. "Why the long faces?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Sora pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a low sigh. "Because a monologue on how 'awesome' his alliance is doesn't say anything about his skills, and frankly, it was embarrassing to listen to. It bordered on delusional. The kid needs counseling or _something_."

"Bordered? He deserves a 0, truth be told."

"I think a 0 is fair."

Surprised, I look down at Glen's picture. "Wow. You guys are harsh. I think I'll give him a 1, to save him from utter humiliation, even though he didn't really do anything to earn it."

Sofia shakes her head, smirking. "You're too soft."

"Maybe so, but Glen gets a 1, and my decision is final. As for Idrial Coven, I wasn't particularly surprised by anything in her performance, but I wasn't totally underwhelmed, either. I say she gets a 5. Thoughts?"

Laurent shrugs. "That sounds fair. Her extensive knowledge of poisons definitely set her up for success, and she has the right kind of winning attitude."

"I agree."

I enter a 5 into the District Ten girl's profile. "Excellent. And next up, we have Birch Styler."

Ferdinand inclines his head. "I think he's quite promising."

Running a hand through my hair, I say, "And I would have to agree with you. He's learned many things during his stay here, not to mention the fact that he arrived at the Capitol with superior fighting knowledge. His performance impressed me, I'll be honest. The butcher's knife was an interesting touch." I lean over the table, staring at the boy's face. "8."

Mara, Bree, and Laurent all give a collective moan of annoyance. "You're just handing out high scores. You're giving two outer-district tributes a score of 8?"

"Because they've earned it," I counter. "Moving right along. Selene Briony."

The girl's image appears underneath the table's surface, and I press my tongue against my teeth. I remain unimpressed by her session, because I know that her admirable climbing skills will most likely not come into play during the arena. However, she can use a trench knife, that fact is not in dispute. I let out a sigh. "I think she earned a 5."

Amethyst scrunches up her eyebrows. "Really? I think she earned a 6."

With a frown, Archibald says, "She should get a 4."

"And so I stick to my original number: 5. Her district partner, Cascade, earned a 5, as well."

"Yes."

"Agreed."

"As for Charcoal Paxton… well." I lean on my elbows and think. She's a smart girl, but she's emotionally weak, and though she's picked up a number of skills within the past few days, she still doesn't possess the all-around knowledge that the physically weaker tributes must have in order to survive. "I think that a 4 is fair."

Mara frowns. "Really? Just a 4?"

"Yes. As of now, she just isn't… _enough_." I lean back in my chair, rubbing my fingers together. "Maybe that will change, but for now, a 4 suits her best. And Taun, likewise, earned a 4 with his route memorization capabilities. Any dissenters?"

"Nope."

"Not really."

"Wonderful." I finish entering the numbers, and stand up from the table. "Well, with that, I believe our meeting is adjourned. You're all free to go."

My eight Secondary and Tertiary Gamemakers nod to me, thank me, and file out of the room, one by one, until only Spicer and I remain.

"Interesting talent groupings this year," Spicer says, clutching her clipboard close to her chest. Today, she wears a dark blue, silken sundress. The fabric suits her nicely. "I hope they make for an interesting game, otherwise Snow will have your head on a silver platter."

"Don't remind me." I confirm the data, and the finalized list appears on the surface of the table. "Keep it interesting, or die." I crack a grin and look up at my assistant, one eyebrow raised. "Sounds easy enough."

* * *

_**TRAINING SCORES - BY DISTRICT**_

**DISTRICT ONE**

Trance Berrill: **9**

Alpha Revere: **9**

**DISTRICT TWO**

Necali Reinerston: **10**

Stellar Andrews: **8**

**DISTRICT THREE**

Zeno Atticus: **5**

Rumor Cobalt: **7**

**DISTIRCT FOUR**

Nemo Dedecus: **9**

Waverly Capri: **8**

**DISTRICT FIVE**

Dominic Monipule: **3**

Mariah Cassel: **3**

**DISTRICT SIX**

Alder Haynes: **5**

Relly Jay: **3**

**DISTRICT SEVEN**

Linden Cooper: **8**

Flavia Reeves: **6**

**DISTRICT EIGHT**

Erizelda Morrison: **5**

Wade Odinshoot: **5**

**DISTRICT NINE**

Glen Ackerman: **1**

Pagnotta Millet: **2**

**DISTRICT TEN**

Birch Styler: **8**

Idiral Coven: **5**

**DISTRICT ELEVEN**

Cascade Zephyr: **5**

Selene Briony: **5**

**DISTRICT TWLEVE**

Taun Navarro: **4**

Charcoal Paxton: **4**

* * *

**Wow, look at all of those words. Sorry for the big block of text, and sorry for the delay. Like I said, life is hectic, and Atmosphere is one of the many obligations I have to fulfill.**

**So, we have the Interviews up next, then Launch, then the Bloodbath. **

**Almost there!**

**I hope you enjoyed this hugely long chapter. XD Let me know what you think!**


	24. Words, Words, Words

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Head Gamemaker Icarus Castillo**

* * *

As Head Gamemaker, I get one of the most coveted spots in the entire audience, high up on the upper balcony that sits closest to the stage. I have an excellent view of everything, even the anxious crowd of rich people who reserved their seats years in advance and paid through the nose just to share the same breathing space as the famous Caesar Flickerman. My fingers tap against the wooden armrest in an erratic rhythm, conveying my pent-up anxiety. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, consciously trying to keep my heart rate low. Surely the President can hear the laborious thumping all the way from here.

Down on the stage, Caesar sits on his plush white chair, talking with one of his assistants, laughing at some joke, waving at random members of the audience. This year he dyed his hair a dark slate gray, which he painstakingly color-coordinated with his tuxedo and bowtie. I'd always though he was a nice guy until I actually stopped to talk with him for five minutes. Much to my disdain, I quickly figured out that the bastard is a plastic fake. Now, I can barely stand to sit in the same room as him, let alone watch him pick apart the tributes on national television.

_Just calm down,_ I tell myself. _Don't let your nerves get in the way of your job._

Right. My job. After watching the tributes for the past three days, I've built up a pretty good understanding of their strengths and weaknesses. But the interviews offer a whole new glimpse into their personality, specifically how they perform under pressure, how much they value honesty, and their acting abilities. Every second of every day, I need to be observing these kids, getting into their heads. All so I can kill them later in the most brutal ways imaginable.

I don't think I've ever felt such a combination of giddy excitement and self-loathing as I do right this very second. The good night's sleep helped a little, but not as much as I'd hoped.

Spicer comes up from behind and seats herself next to me. She hands me a thin stack of papers with a lot of little handwritten notes in the margins, all from her. "This is tonight's schedule."

I flip through the stack and raise an eyebrow. One of her notes reads, 'Sly little bitch'.

"Uh, Spicer?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly are these little notes that you seem to have left all over the report?"

Even under her white face powder, I see her blush a deep red. She looks down at the papers in her hands, and then looks to me. "I seem to have given you the wrong copy. The one you're holding is mine." She holds her hand out expectantly, but I pull the stack of papers away from her.

"Ah ah," I say, grinning. "I want to see what you have to say. You can keep that one. This one's mine."

"But sir-"

"No. I am the boss."

She reaches across the chair to grab the packet, but I turn away from her, almost falling out of my chair in my attempt to play keep away. "No! Spicer Craven, insubordination will not be tolerated here!"

At the mention of her full name, she pulls away and gives me a desperate puppy dog stare. "Please, Icarus."

"No. The decision is final." I flip the copy in my hand, shooting her a shark-toothed grin. "This is now mine." I lean closer to her, and add, "Trust me, nothing you've written here will make me think any less of you."

"But sir-"

I sigh and turn to face the stage. "As you know, Spicer, I am an obstinate mule, and nothing you say can possibly persuade me to forfeit this little gem."

"Even though I wholeheartedly agree with that statement, I still-"

"Hush. The show's about to start."

She looks up at the ceiling as the lights dim, and grudgingly crosses her arms, holding the unmarked copy in front of her face as if there's something exceedingly important printed there. Which I'm sure there isn't. She just wants to look angry so she can guilt-trip me into handing over the schedule. Which I won't.

Down on the stage, Caesar turns to the audience with outspread hands, and with a winning smile, he declares, "Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" A huge roar bursts from the audience, and I smirk. Deep in the narcissistic recesses of my mind, I cannot help but cherish the fact that they are cheering for something that I created. "We've all been waiting three hundred and forty-one days for this Hunger Games to begin, so, dear audience, without further ado, please allow me to introduce: Alpha Revere!"

The girl, dressed in a silky pinkish orange dress, enters from the left and crosses over to the plush gray chair, plopping herself alongside Caesar, crossing her legs and leaning back as if she has no concerns about the interview. Alpha's stylist pulled all of her normally unkempt hair up into a tight top-bun, leaving a few strands to hang down the sides of her face. I have to say, she cleans up nicely.

"So, Miss Revere, Panem is dying to know: what happened at the reapings? Everyone has watched the video from District One at least ten times, and the enigma only grows more and more confusing. Care to tell us what was going through your mind?"

She rests her elbow on the armrest and rubs her fingers together absentmindedly. "I planned to volunteer when I turned eighteen. But when Cheshire drew my name, I took it as a sign. I was overjoyed, actually."

"Probably the only reaped tribute who was ever happy to hear their name called," Caesar says, and laughter rumbles through the audience. "Now, the girl who had planned to volunteer, why did you attack her like that?"

Ice glimmers coldly in her eyes. "She got in my way. And I wasn't about to forfeit my opportunity to participate in the Hunger Games to some bimbo fresh out of the academy. I don't care what happened to her. I only know that I am here, talking to you, preparing to go into the arena and kill some people."

"So, it's safe to say that you're looking forward to the bloodshed?"

"Absolutely."

"And you believe that you stand a good chance of winning?"

She snickers. "Well, yes, I do. But to me, the opportunity to experience the rush of battle far outweighs the prospect of victory."

I groan internally. From the training sessions, I already knew that she was a little unstable, but I hadn't expected full-blown sadism. She will be one to watch out for.

They exchange a few more questions and answers. The audience laughs at one of Alpha's jokes, but I don't hear it. I've already formed my opinion about her, and I'll be sure to keep an eye on her as we move into the arena.

Next up is Trance Berrill, the oddball who tried to eat the body paint during training. He's not an idiot, I can tell that much, but he's a little… off. His stylist decided to go conservative with the clothing, but the black tuxedo fits his form perfectly, something that will definitely draw the sponsors' attention.

"Good evening, Mr. Berrill."

"Hello, Mr. Flickerman."

"Please, take a seat," Caesar says. Holding his hands out questioningly, he adds, "Offer us a little insight as to why you volunteered."

Trance shrugs and grins. I narrow my eyes; I can sense nothing devious behind his smile. "It's tradition for the firstborn Berrill male to volunteer. My grandpa volunteered, my uncle volunteered, so I volunteered. You know, just keeping the tradition alive."

Nodding, Caesar replies, "Ah, yes. Jeremiah Berrill, victor of the Seventh Hunger Games. He was a strong one, your grandfather."

"Yeah, he's a pretty cool guy. I mean, everyone knows him as the Victor, but I just know him as Grandpa."

"Of course. Jeremiah proved himself to be an everyman, both conniving and strong, observant and outgoing. He won by making the right alliances, and knowing when to cut his losses. Tell me, Trance, did his victory inspire you to volunteer?"

Trance looks down at the ground for a moment, before nodding. "Yes, it did. I mean, at least a little bit. But, truth be told, I was more motivated out of curiosity than anything. I've heard all of these stories from him about the Seventh Hunger Games, and I've watched all of the other games, either when they were aired or on tape. I wanted to see them for myself."

Letting out a sigh, I look down at the schedule. Next to Trance's name, Spicer wrote, _Three pears short of a fruit cup._ Heh.

Flickerman grins and inclines his head. "Well, Mr. Berrill, I will be sure to follow your progression through the arena."

The boy nods and stands. The audience claps as Trance exit's the stage, and cheers wildly as Stellar Andrews struts into the limelight, curls of blonde hair shining ridiculously bright, the layers of her deep indigo dress rustling as she takes her seat.

"Wow! Ms. Andrews, if you don't mind me saying, you look absolutely lovely tonight!"

"Thank you, Caesar," she says, sending him a seductive glance from underneath her thick eyelashes. I sigh. One of _those_. Selling the sexy angle to all of those old, perverted men willing to pay big bucks to save their newfound, barely of-age sweetheart. Great.

"So, Stellar, the Capitol is dying to know: what makes you tick? Why did you decide to risk it all?"

She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and cocks her head to the side. "Well, victory, of course." The audience goes wild, as if she said something deep and insightful. "I've been training for years, so I know that I'm prepared. And I know that I'm capable of winning."

_Don't get too cocky, _I think, raising my eyebrows. Looking down at Spicer's schedule, I see that she's written nothing about Stellar. There's simply a small drawing of a peacock, feathers fully splayed. Seems fitting.

I miss something that Stellar says, but the entire audience gives a collective 'aww', apparently finding whatever she had to say to be completely and utterly adorable. They're like puppets.

"I didn't know she had a sister," Spicer says sullenly, tapping her pencil against the side of her head.

"Oh," I say. "Was that it?"

Spicer looks to me, her gaze cutting. "Are you even paying attention?"

Waving indifferently, I snicker, trying to conceal my own inattentiveness. "Yeah, I am." More pointedly, I add, "Don't question your boss."

With a deep sigh, she merely replies with, "Sometimes I still can't believe you're in charge."

I lean back into my chair, desperately trying to appear calm, even as the nervousness eats me alive. "Sometimes I can't believe it, either."

I glance up at the ceiling, my gaze following the swirls of bright light that form the image of the Capitol seal. It's beautiful, yes, but also vicious. It's the perfect symbolic representation of the city.

The crowd breaks out into wild applause, and someone behind me lets out a wolf-whistle. I return my attention back to the stage, surprised to find Stellar gone and Necali already halfway through the conversation. I mentally chide myself for losing focus again.

Caesar laughs heartily, slapping his open palm down on the glass table. "You lucky dog, earning the love of such a beautiful woman! And do you feel the same about her?"

Necali folds his hands outward, in an obviously placating manner. "Of course. She's quick-witted, she's strong, she's capable, and gorgeous, to boot. What's not to love about her?" His face breaks into a soft grin, and with palpable tenderness, he adds, "She's perfect."

If he's lying, he's doing an excellent job.

"Well, Mr. Reinerston, you sound quite dedicated," Caesar says, "and set on victory. Do you believe that a decade of training and mental preparation have given you an edge?"

The change in Necali's demeanor is instantaneous, almost enough to give me whiplash. He's suddenly cold and harsh, the smile gone, his words biting. "Absolutely. Not only the training, but like you said, dedication. That's the most powerful tool I have. There are a lot of things riding on my victory. Winning is my only option."

I raise an eyebrow. Sounds like there's more to the kid than I thought.

With a nod, Caesar looks up at the ceiling just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the interview. "It was wonderful to meet you, Necali. I'm glad we got some insight into who you are, and I wish you well in the Game."

Necali nods and, picking up on Flickerman's cue, exit's the stage. He is replaced by the cruel-faced redhead from District Three.

She seats herself on the plush seat, careful to avoid crushing her dark blue dress, and gives Caesar a cold, hard stare.

"Welcome, Miss Rumor Cobalt," he says, gesturing to her in greeting. "How are you this evening?"

"I'm fine," she responds coolly. "How are you?"

He smiles. "Well, I'm just dandy, thank you for asking. So, Rumor, you managed to pull off a training score of seven. That's quite impressive, especially coming from a non-Career district. Care to share?"

Her shoulders rise with a disinterested shrug. "I simply used my knowledge and abilities. Nothing spectacular, nothing unexpected."

"Oh? And what, exactly, is your specialty?"

"I'm particularly talented with a few things, but electricity and circuitry are definitely my strong points. It's what I learned at home, it's what I know, and it's what I'm good at. Which is why I'm lucky that what I'm good at just so happens to be useful in terms of self-defense."

Judging by her conduct during the training sessions, she's probably lying, in order to keep a few secrets for the arena. Then again, she could actually know what she's talking about.

Flickerman looks at her with a certain sort of disingenuous doubt. "Of course, but does technological know-how really warrant such a high score?"

The girl from District Three gives him a knowing smile, sharp enough to cut to the bone. "Rumors are more dangerous than tigers."

Clapping his hands, the host leans back in his chair, laughing. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you, Ms. Cobalt?"

I turn my attention back to the notes and sigh. Next to Rumor's name, Spicer has practically written a dissertation, detailing Rumor's every move and decision during the course of training. Yes, she is just full of surprises. I'm mostly surprised by the fact that she let her district partner run off to another alliance, without so much as batting an eyelash. Maybe she expected it? Or maybe she's trying to keep her anger to herself. Either way, when the Game begins, no one will be by her side.

Next up is her young district partner, little Zeno Atticus. For the most part he comes across as shy, answering in monosyllables, even though I know full well that he's capable of so much more. It's only once Caesar asks him about his aspirations that Zeno actually gives a commendable answer.

"I like to build things," he says, his eyes lighting up. "If I win, I'll go to college, and invent things. Mostly utilities, but I'm sure I could work on a couple of fanciful things, too."

"Excellent, excellent," Flickerman says, just as the buzzer sounds. "Well, have a good evening, Mr. Atticus. Next up, we have Waverly Capri!"

As the boy leaves, the girl comes sauntering in, her normally straight hair curled into tight, bouncy spirals. I have to admit that the look suits her. Her ocean blue dress shimmers under the bright lights, and she flashes the audience a winning smile, prompting the overexcited audience to break out into shrill cheers and hoarse screams. She waves, showing off each of her dark blue nails, colored to compliment the dress. Her stylist has done well.

"Greetings, Miss Capri. You look lovely this evening."

Grinning, she replies, "Thank you, Mr. Flickerman."

"Radiant, as always."

She cocks her head to the side, making her hair fall across her shoulder. "Oh, you're too kind."

"Well, the training scores are out. Are you intimidated by any of the other Careers, or any of the outer-district tributes? In fact, both the male from District Ten and the male from District Seven earned a score equivalent to your own, not to mention your own ally, Stellar Andrews."

She waves his question away dismissively. "I can handle myself. My alliance is strong, I am strong. That's what matters."

He places his hands on the table, a row of vicious, demanding fangs underneath that deceptively sly smile. "And yet, your own training score leaves much to be discussed, Waverly."

Shifting uncomfortably, her lip gloss shimmering under the intense lights, the girl places her hands in her lap and a flame of fear sparks deep in her black-lined eyes. "How do you mean?"

Laughing, Flickerman says, "You know quite well that your cousin also scored an 8 in training, before she went on to conquer the entire arena. Do you see any parallels?"

As soon as he mentions her cousin, Waverly shuts down entirely. Looking away, she tosses her head to the side and offers a disingenuous smile. "I'm not here to replicate my cousin. I am my own woman. And I refuse to answer any questions on my cousin's success."

The audience takes a collective gasp, blindsided by her suddenly glacial attitude. True to her word, though, no matter how he pesters or bugs her, she will not rekindle the discussion of Sapphire, the illustrious and incredibly beautiful victor of the Fifty-Sixth Hunger Games. Earnest little Sapphire Capri earned a prudish reputation within the first few months of her victory, only because refused to let the Capitol prostitute her out until they could assure the safety and health of her family. Rather sick of them, in my opinion.

Later, when she married a wealthy Capitolite investor, the prostitution subsequently stopped.

Waverly eventually leaves the stage, her fists clenched, arms firmly at her side, and a stony, intentionally emotionless mask on her face. Obviously, her cousin's victory remains a sensitive topic in her life.

With a chuckle, Flickerman turns back to the cameras. "Well, that was intriguing, to say the least." He places his hands on the table in mock-anticipation. "Next in our queue, Mister Nemo Dedecus!"

Nemo walks out from backstage, wearing a trim suit that fits his frame quite well. The handsome kid is bound to attract a number of sponsors from his appearance alone. Add to that his relatively high training score, and the odds are tipped in his favor. Not by much, considering that there are twenty-three other kids vying for survival, some of whom are equally as well-trained, but perhaps just enough.

They speak for what feels like eons, even though I know each session is limited to no more that three minutes.

"How can you be so confident?" Flickerman asks, putting on airs of surprise and wonder.

Nemo sees through the ruse, I can tell. But the boy just smiles and shrugs, willfully playing along. "It's not confidence. It's just the knowledge that if I don't place faith in myself, and if I don't fight to my utmost abilities, I won't come out of the arena alive. I have no spare energy to waste on fear."

As the boy leans back in his chair, the audience bursts out into applause, obviously impressed by his maturity. I have to admit, I didn't expect him to be so accepting of his potential fate. Most other Careers tend to focus solely on their own strength, or their motivations for volunteering, or their family. Rarely do they think of what will happen once they find themselves in the confines of the arena.

The buzzer sounds, and Flickerman thanks and dismisses Nemo before turning back to the audience. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our first of three sessions. We'll be back with District Five's own Mariah Cassel after these messages."

I stretch my arms above my head and sink further into the plush chair, letting out a tired sigh. I hate sitting still for so long.

"The Careers, for the most part, seem fairly competent," Spicer says dreamily.

"Yeah." I place the clipboard in my lap, drumming my fingers on the armchair. "But are the odds in their favor?" Smiling at her, I add, "That, dear Spicer, is the question you must ask."

* * *

**Reith Payne, Avox**

* * *

I lean against the window frame, gulping down shallow breaths like a dying fish, thousands upon thousands of unspoken words flooding over the tongue that I no longer have. There are so many things I wanted to say to her, and so many more things that I never had to say because she understood anyways. My fist slides down the glass as I sink to the ground, silent sobs racking my body.

They can't hear me. I'm not supposed to feel emotion. The slaves aren't supposed to mourn the lost.

But I don't care. They can whip me, they can torture me, they can execute me. I have nothing left for them to take.

I bite down on my clenched fist until I taste blood.

I just can't anymore.

I can't.

The Capitol anthem blares through the entire hotel, and I force my hands over my ears, trying in vain to force the sound out of my skull, but I can't. I search for the television remote, simply to turn the wretched thing off and give myself some peace. No luck. All of the televisions are programmed to stay on until the Pre-games are over.

On the screen, the girl from District Five sits next to Flickerman, nervously picking at the edges of her circuit board dress, her face alternating between fleeting smiles and complete shock at her own situation. She speaks little, even when the interviewer tries to entice information out of her. He even resorts to bringing up her family, friends, home life, and personal talents, but she remains untouchable and aloof, so Flickerman quickly dismisses her without so much as a smile.

Next is the District Five male, who comes off as rather charming and cunning, though I sense something underneath the façade, something that I would not want to deal with in the arena if I were one of the other tributes. I do not like him at all. Then again, I would hate to be a tribute, too.

The girl from District Six comes skipping onstage, smiling and waving giddily at the audience. Whenever she shifts under the bright studio lights, her silver dress shimmers with the image of a hovercraft, an obvious reference to her districts' specialization.

"Do you miss your family?" he asks.

"A little, yeah," she answers, almost hopefully. "But I look forward to seeing them again."

The poor girl has no idea of what she's in for, what kind of pain she will be made to endure. Every single year, children get thrown into the arena, sacrificed like animals, and most of them have no idea what they're getting into, much like this Relly girl. Pitiful, really. Another example of the Capitol's cruelty.

When she is dismissed, her district partner takes her place, and I immediately realize that they are both like night and day. While she brightens the room, he can't seem to find anything positive in his situation. Granted, I'm more inclined to agree with him, but really, a slightly more positive attitude will get him farther in the game. Judging by his responses, though, he isn't interested in getting far. How odd.

Flavia Reeves, the girl of District Seven, seems no worse for wear after her stay in the Capitol, though the subdued fire in her eyes still burns just as bright as the day she arrived. I force myself to look away from the screen for the duration of her interview. She reminds me too much of Neela.

Then again, at this point in the grieving process, every wretched little thing reminds me of her.

When Flavia leaves, she is replaced by Linden Cooper, her district partner, and I have to physically restrain myself to keep from breaking the television altogether. That bastard is a murderer, a full-blown sociopath, and I cannot help but hate every aspect of his existence. When he looks at the camera full-on, though, a cold hand grips my heart, freezing over my seething rage. In his black eyes, I see no animalistic anger, smug self-satisfaction, or even frightening instability. Instead, I see nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that frightens me more than if I had seen the rawest, ugliest of emotions.

What _is_ he?

Even as Flickerman asks Linden of his plans for the arena, the kid shrugs, and nonchalantly answers with, "I will kill all of the females, in honor of my sister, Daphne. I'll then simply wait it out until the end."

He doesn't seem to notice that the audience has gone completely silent, as has the majority of Panem, I'm sure. Is this kid for real?

Flickerman quickly ushers the boy offstage, and wastes no effort in introducing the girl from District Eight, the beautiful slut that every perverted Capitolite will sponsor in the hopes of purchasing "love" from her in the event of her victory.

I hate everything about this process. It's sickening.

Erizelda seems quite charming, though her beauty only extends a few inches past the surface of her skin; the way she so casually discusses the potential deaths of her allies, and the things she'll probably have to do in order to get home, is cause enough for concern. The Capitol loves it, though, I'm sure of it. They all adore a tribute who has no compunctions about killing. It makes them feel better about their own bloodlust, as they happily watch children slaughter each other on live television.

Her district partner, Wade, doesn't look too thrilled about his presence in the Hunger Games, but I can't say I blame the kid. All of his answers are sharp and curt, which although understandable, won't net him any sponsors.

When Flickerman finally shoos the kid away, he looks back out at the audience and smiles. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for us to take another commercial break. Before we go, though, I have a Hunger Games trivia question for you to answer: In the Fifty-Eighth Hunger Games, otherwise known as the Blind War, which of the following tributes did not manage to make it into the final three? Was it: Angel Rayson, Jerome Applebaum, or Circe Freya? The answer will be revealed when we return."

I pull my knees to my chest as the screen switches to a commercial, advertising whatever ridiculous product the Capitolites are wasting their money on these days.

Slowly, I pick myself off the floor, wash my bloodied hand, wipe a hand across my face and quickly leave the room. I refuse to watch another half-hour of this ridiculous show.

* * *

**Maximillian Grey, Male Capitolite  
**

* * *

Everything seems… slower than it should be.

I feel light and airy. Almost like laughing.

I take another sip of red wine, and savor the sensation of warmth as it spreads across my limbs in gentle waves. I'm buzzing right now, and if I am to use Arielle's current state of drunkenness as a warning, I should probably stop while I'm ahead.

"I think," she says, bringing her hand up to stifle a hiccup, "I thing that -_hic- _it was thah, uh, Circe girr, riiiiight, she was, like, a runner-_up, _but not a _finalist_." She lays her head down on the table and her violet hair spills out across her face. Her face is flush with the false heat of the alcohol, and she lets out a random giggle, all of her movements abnormally slow and overly-careful. "I washed that Game when I was, like, sevun."

I laugh and place my glass down on the table. "You mean _seventeen_?"

She scrunches her face up with confusion. "I dun know what you mean…" It takes her about ten full seconds to realize her math error. "Oh, riiiiiiiight, yeah, yeah, sevun-_teeeeeeeen_."

I stifle a laugh and take away her glass. "You need a break, Arielle. I'm not going to carry you home like last time."

With a dumb giggle she nods. "I thing… I thing yurr right." She hiccups. "I'll stop, fur now."

"Hey, Max," Kristofer says, nudging my shoulder. "Unmute the T.V., dude."

"Huh?" I didn't realize that the Pre-games were back on. "Oh, sorry."

Caesar Flickerman sits in his plush green chair, hands folded in front of him and mouth pulled back in a blindingly white smile. "Welcome back! Now, before the break, I asked you: In the Fifty-Eighth Hunger Games, otherwise known as the Blind War, which of the following tributes did not manage to make it into the final three? If you answered: Angel Rayson, then you are correct. This girl from District Two appeared to be a strong candidate for victory, until the male from District Three took her out with an impressive and violent explosive array."

He turns to the next guest, the tiny blonde girl from District Nine. "Next up, we have dear little Pagnotta Millet."

The girl looks terrified out of her ever-loving gourd. Predictably, she barely answers any of his questions, and of those she does answer, her voice is barely audible, anyways.

Marsha, seated beside me, holds out her hand in a thumbs-down sign. "Boo. The odds aren't in this girl's favor."

I shrug. "You never know," I say, even though I'm betting that she's a bloodbath.

Yet, she isn't nearly as bad as her district partner. She's just quiet; he's delusional.

"So, Mr. Glen Ackerman," Flickerman asks, giving the boy a sidelong stare, "you say that you've allied yourself with Pagnotta. What is your plan for the arena?"

The kid gives a goofy grin and holds up his hands in a placating manner. "I don't want to brag, but, she and I are probably the strongest alliance in the entire arena." Oh, great. Here we go. "We're both extremely talented, and we're definitely shoo-ins for the victory."

"But… even combined, you and Pagnotta got a training score of 3. And only one of you can win. That's the entire point of the Hunger Games."

He shrugs. "We are both just that amazing. The Gamemakers will probably love us enough to give us both a pass."

I almost choke on my mouthful of wine, in utter disbelief. The amount of embarrassment I feel for this kid is almost unbearable, and I am tempted to look away from the screen until the next kid is interviewed.

Luckily, Flickerman picks up on the audience's disdain for Glen, and subsequently shoos the male from District Nine off the stage as soon as possible. Thank goodness.

Next up is the girl from District Ten, Idrial, who despite her age, exudes a certain amount of sex-appeal that I can't quite understand. She's what, fifteen? I mean, she's pretty, but still. I guess I'm not as fond of them trying to prostitute out all of the attractive tributes, regardless of age, as the rest of the Capitol is. I'm just not that into the whole deal. I'll root for who I think can win, regardless of their physical appearance.

The District Ten male is a different story. He is strong enough in his own right, and doesn't need the added sex appeal that so many of the other tributes must use if they hope to get any sponsors. In his interview, he seems unafraid and very prepared, which, in a tribute, is quite admirable. Birch Styler is strong enough to garner sponsors by his strength and training score alone. I have confidence in the kid. If I was the betting type, I'd say he stands a good chance, probably as good as any of the Careers.

After Birch comes Selene Briony, the girl from District Eleven, who turns out to be one of Birch's allies, the other being the girl from District Seven. Seems like they have a pretty good alliance going on. Give the Careers a run for their money.

She seems pretty calm, open, smart, collected, and prepared for the arena, or at least as prepared as anyone ever can be.

Her district partner, Cascade, also seems prepared, though he is markedly less open and rather cold and antisocial, if not rude. According to the interview, he has no allies, which, judging from past Games, probably won't help him much in the arena.

By the time we reach District Twelve, I can tell that Flickerman is more interested in keeping the audience's attention than showcasing the actual tributes. After all, at this point the interviews have lasted longer than an hour, and Capitolites have notoriously short attentions spans. Even I am getting a little antsy. I want this to be over with so we can get on with our Pre-game party.

The girl from District Twelve is nice enough, though I can tell from the way she carries herself that she suffers from a serious lack of self-confidence. She smiles at all of the appropriate times, but her expressions look forced, and to be quite honest, I don't think she's all that bright. Maybe she'll do well in the Game, though. Sometimes there are dark horse tributes. That generally makes for a good Game.

Taun Navarro, the last kid to get interviewed, turns out to be the happiest of the bunch. Pleasant and cheery, he genuinely laughs a couple times, not forcing himself to look happy like the rest of the tributes. He doesn't put on any sort of mask; I can tell he acts like this normally, even off-screen. I hope he gets far. The happy-go-lucky kids tend not to last very long.

As soon as Flickerman ends the interviews, Marsha turns the television off. "Alright, everyone," she says, sounding a lot more sober than I expected, "We know the training scores, we've seen how they act under pressure, and we got to hear their side of the story. Bets?"

Ah, the time-honored tradition of betting on the tributes. I've been betting since I was ten, but in all fifteen years, I've never bet on the right tribute.

Maybe this year will be different.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think.**

**Also, there's a poll on my profile. Please vote for (up to) your six favorite tributes so far. This may or may not influence who dies in the bloodbath. Even if you didn't submit a tribute, I still value your opinion!**

**Launching in the next chapter, then the Bloodbath. I'm excited. Are you?**


End file.
